Harry Potter and the Dawn of the Dead
by Erised Burning
Summary: HPBuffyRE crossover. Feeling trapped by the prophecy, Harry ditches the Order and Privet Drive, only to find himself searching for kidnapped slayers in Raccoon City.
1. Harry's Summer

A/N: Hi all,

all right, I've returned with a brand new story. It's a multi-crossover between Harry Potter, Resident Evil and Buffy the Vampire slayer.

A few preliminary notes:

My knowledge of Buffy and of Resident Evil are pretty weak. If I screw up the timelines, or narratives, well, I don't really care. Also, any Resident Evil storyline elements will be based on the video games and not the movies.

I'm not sure how many different POVs there's going to be. If you read this, you may have to content yourself with the fact that Harry, while being the single largest protagonist in this story, will not enjoy screen time exclusively.

Also, I've no clue where this story's going. Feel free to make suggestions, and I'll do my best to accommodate anything that I think is cool. Generally speaking though, I intend for this story to be almost completely outside the scope of the wizarding world.

For those of you who have read Blessed, you may recognize some lines or phrases that are reminiscent. I wrote this chapter a week before I started Blessed, having been spurred on by the discovery of the FWG Horcrux Challenge. Do forgive the slight lack of originality. I was writing them at roughly the same time and so I ended up swapping a few phrases between them.

Reviews are, of course, welcome.

Finally, this fic is post-OOtP, though I may include HBP elements.

Disclaimer: I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. I own Harry Potter, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Resident Evil. So come on and sue me. I dare you.

Harry Potter and the Dawn of the Dead.

Prologue

The Unravelling

Brigadier General Brett Hayes had, for the most part, been a staunch opponent of the bilateral agreement signed between the United States government and MedGen Inc. Still, there hadn't been much he could do about it at the time, and even less now. The idea of selling off control of research and development in the area of biotech warfare had rubbed him the wrong way, it seemed, and had earned him a reputation as a dinosaur of an extinct world of international politics. Once upon a time, it had been easy to see who the enemies were; the war games had tractable solutions, comprehensible ends. Not anymore. Now, it was research for research's sake, and, for some inexplicable, inarticulable reason, it rubbed him the wrong way. Almost as though the subject of the research had taken on a life of its own, had acquired sentience, had taken control and the so-called experimenters had in turn become the objects of experimentation.

And now, at that moment in time, he found himself walking through the antiseptic, underground halls of a very top secret, very elite, very state-of-the-art biotech research facility, whereupon he would come to learn of a great many things. Things which would shatter his world belief, once he came to accept them.

His standard issue army boots clicked flatly against the tri-titanium alloy that made up the floors and walls of that strange place.

Stopping before a large, thick, magnetically sealed door, and submitting to a retinal scan, Brett silently waited for the computer to recognize him and admit him to the boardroom. Absently, he fingered the compact Colt Python strapped to his waist, long ago memories of secret wars surfacing from time-darkened pits in his memory, inescapable visions of gruesome torture taking yet another little piece of his conscience away into the recesses of his own mind.

The door opened, and he went inside. He swiftly catalogued the identities of the room's occupants. There was the senior General Dobson, who also happened to be Brett's mentor, a lab coat named Ada, and an unknown who Brett keenly measured with his eyes. A thin, wisp of a man with reddish brown hair, a deceptively placid expression on his face. Brett took a post between them, completing the circle and not bothering to sit down, as all of the others were standing. Built into the wall was a viewscreen with all kinds of electronic gizmos attached to it, one of them being a simple DVD player.

"Now that we're all here," began Dobson, not bothering to introduce the unknown, which Brett decided to call John, for his own benefit, "we can begin." Dobson then tapped a button on the DVD player, bringing to life the viewscreen. "Pay close attention," said Dobson to the other three watchers, though, by John's expression, Brett suspected that he was the one who provided the DVD in the first place, if his casual disinterest in the events playing out on the screen in front of them were any indication. Ada, by contrast, was scrutinizing the video acutely. Brett simply wanted to find out what the fuss was about and then move on to the discussion.

Very quickly, it became apparent that he was watching some sort of spycam and that it was unfolding a story about a cult of some sort. No doubt heathen cannibals or some other such thing. They wore girly looking robes that hid their form and white masks that made him think of KKK members depicted in Birth of the Nation, the old Griffith film from 1915. Most curious of all was that they all seemed to possess sticks that were about a foot in length, maybe less. Mostly they were hidden in the fabric of their robes or cloaks or whatever, but, sometimes, one would pull out the trinket and wave it around, at which point a light show would follow. The effects generally were rather curious, often involving floating objects or disappearing persons. At one point, an adult female was brought into the room and thrown before the group of psychos, only to be tortured by the people. Mostly with the sticks no less, which Brett was starting to think were some sort of tazer, like a cattle prod. Eventually, the girl was killed from what looked like an overexposure to the electrical charge. From there, the cult members disappeared from view.

Once the video feed ended, Dobson ejected the DVD and placed it gently back in its case, at which point he handed it to John, confirming Brett's initial suspicion that the unknown was the originator. From there, they all took a seat at the board table, at which point Dobson turned to Brett and Ada and said, "Tell me what you think."

Brett Hayes knew he wasn't the smartest guy in the world, but he also knew that he wasn't an idiot. He was familiar with Dobson's process of edification. He liked to show people the evidence first and then see what conclusions they came to. Knowing this, Brett tried to be as thorough with his analysis of the video he just watched. He said, "Their dress suggests a manner of a religious sect. Robes are medieval, if I understand correctly. Their choice of weapon is unusual. From what I gather, it's some sort of electrical tool, like a cattle prodder. There are a few unexplainable occurrences worth noting, including the ability to appear and disappear, as well as floating objects, though I am inclined to view it as a hoax. I have seen more intricate special effects on seventies Star Trek episodes."

"Anything else?" Dobson prompted.

Brett considered it and then added. "The leader kept his face obscured, so there was little I could glean, though it appeared from time to time as though he were talking to the snake that was curled around his feet. It sounds like a psych tactic."

Dobson nodded, as if confirming something and then turned his brown eyes to Ada. "And you, Ms. O'Reilly?"

Ada took a deep, calming breath before speaking. "I tended to focus my attention on what exactly the subjects were doing with their tools. At first glance, I was prepared to dismiss them, but, after continuing to watch their performance, I noticed some oddities. The first is that all the peculiar occurrences took place immediately following some sort of action by the subjects' use of the instrument. As it has been noted, some sort of energy extends from the instrument. That in and of itself is not impressive. However, the first thing to note is that the colour of the discharge varies depending on certain circumstances. For example, the lighting of the fire in the fireplace was predicated on an orange glow, while the levitation discharge was predicated on a pale yellow. The pain discharge was amber and the final discharge against the cult's victim was a bright green. If it is true that these discharges were simply electrical, then the discharge in all cases should be white. I cannot think of anything that would explain the various colours. Secondly, there were precisely two levitation discharges that occurred, and, oddly enough, they both were of the same colour, which suggests that there is something systematic in the use of the instruments. Possibly, the instruments have multiple settings. Apart from that, the most curious thing are the types of events that the various discharges precipitate. It is not uncommon to have a device that ignites wood, for example, though I will admit that to do so at a distance of five feet is most impressive. But to cause an object to float is an entirely different story. My first inclination is to say electromagnetic fields, since, apart from gravity, it is the only other known force that can alter the inertia of objects without the use of intermediary mass. However, in one example, the levitated object was a glass of water. Even if it were possible to create a tool so effective in such a concise form as to make objects move with such control from a distance, it would only be effective on objects that were subject to magnetic influences. Glass, unfortunately, is not one of them. As such, I am at a loss as to explain the phenomena I witnessed on the video."

Dobson nodded to Ada's assessment before finally turning to John and saying, "Perhaps now would be the time for you to tell us what you know of this phenomenon."

The person that Brett had dubbed John merely nodded before proceeding. "This recording is far from the first of its kind, though I will admit it is the most in-depth thus far in terms of its ability to provide information on the activities of this organization. Over the last six weeks, we have secured video tapes with similar types of occurrences that have been recorded on security cameras. More often than not, the cameras are rendered inoperable before much can be discerned. Only through the diligent efforts of some amateur experimenters who sought to recover footage from a damaged security tape were we able to uncover the barest glimpse of this activity taking place. More disturbingly, these camera failures take place at locations where major accidents occur at around the same time as the camera malfunction. Individuals with black cloaks and sticks are always at the scene before the footage is rendered ineffective. Through sophisticated surveillance and some reconnaissance employing satellite technology, we have been able to track the movements of these individuals to a particular town, and, more precisely, to a particular house. More importantly, we have sent in an undercover reconnaissance team. However, they returned disoriented and experiencing memory loss. All attempts to approach the house, which we are now calling a facility, have been unsuccessful."

"So how did you plant the spycam?" Ada asked, leaning forward and intently curious.

"We spent some time calculating the effect of the memory field and posted a spycam just outside it, calculating the trajectory of the camera's line of sight in order to line it up with a window of the facility. We have stationed soldiers there who set up the camera one hour after dark and take it down one hour before sunrise so as to avoid suspicion. Fortunately, the facility is away from lights and civilization, making detection of our presence extremely unlikely.

"Interesting," Ada muttered. "Memory fields, you say?"

John nodded. "It is the only way that we can think of to describe such a thing. Never before have we seen something like it."

Ada nodded, and Brett had to concede that it was the strangest thing he had ever heard of. Before he could get too far into his own musings however, General Dobson spoke. "Brett, it's critical that we find out what exactly these people are."

Brett nodded, a picture of his involvement in the affair starting to form. "You want me to organize a team to go in there, don't you?"

Dobson merely nodded.

Ada, however, interjected. "But how?" she asked. "You're soldiers will simply turn back the moment they run across this special barrier."

Brett, however, did not seem to be terribly concerned with this apparent problem. He had learned a thing or two during

his lifetime. No matter how fancy this memory field was, it was just a fence, and all fences had their weaknesses. Consequently, he just smiled and said, "Leave it to me."

So it was, muggles would soon discover the consequences of interfering in a prophecy seventeen years running.

Chapter One

Harry's Summer

Late June.

Being sequestered at his aunt and uncle's place for the summer had been both a blessing and a curse for Harry. It gave him time to ponder, and it gave him time to brood, neither of which were very healthy for him, but both of which were necessary. As rain slashed down across his window, he stared out seeing and unseeing.

I made a mistake. I wanted you to have a childhood. I cared too much.

Despite the passage of time, Harry found that the anger that rose up within him at Dumbledore's words did not subside. If anything, it was settling into a clinical hatred that was permanently etching itself onto his soul. It wasn't even hatred at Dumbledore so much, or even hatred at the world, or himself. No, it was a hatred that was nebulous, that fanned out around him, trying to lash out at circumstance, or God or Fate. Time, even. A book of curses lay shredded across his bed, the names of various offensive spells pooled together into an incoherent mass. After spending a day in his own tortured mind, idly moving through the various stages of restlessness, he came to his schoolwork at around mid-evening, determined to be at least somewhat productive. That strategy, however, failed miserably. It failed not because he couldn't focus, or because he was weak-minded or incompetent. No, Harry was anything but those things. No, it failed, because he simply did not see the point.

"Who gives a rat's ass whether I hit a Death Eater with a jelly legs jinx or the bat bogey hex? Or a stunner or a body bind?" Did it really make a difference whether he bothered to learn how to castrate his opponents? Oh sure, it looked cool and all, and would probably scare the Molly Weasleys of the world into pissing their pants, but there were simpler and more straightforward ways of doing it. What was the use of knowing ten spells that all did functionally the same thing, when one would suffice? Full of disgust for himself, for the wasted time, for his own wretched childhood, which was nothing more than a mockery of one, really, especially now knowing how far he needed to go in order to move from his position of average competence to superhuman war machine, Harry took a pair of scissors and began systematically demolishing his book on curses and jinxes and hexes. As far as he was concerned, a clear, simple reductor curse would suffice to drop his opponents, and he would make sure he put enough power behind it to ensure that the motherfuckers weren't going to be getting up anytime soon. Past that, he didn't give a shit.

The only question was whether he was going to get close enough to his quarry to hit them in the first place. That question, was proving to be much more problematic, and, to his dismay, none of his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks managed to conjure up a single intelligent thought on the subject. No, instead, he had a lexicon of water demons, characteristics, taxonomy, physiology, weaknesses, likes and dislikes. It made him want to kill people and curl up into a little ball and cry, all at the same time. Worse yet, he knew that out there, probably drunk and sleeping on someone's lawn was Fletcher or Mr. Tibbles or some other worthless sod that was stuck with the unenviable task of babysitting the world's saviour. It made him feel boxed in, and it did so in the same way that he had felt trapped long ago in that graveyard in Little Hangleton. And Harry was coming to realize that he didn't like that feeling one bit. A part of him wanted to kick and scream and get all angry and ruffled at Dumbledore, the old coot, for manipulating his life to serve the wizarding world. All of it seemed disturbingly calculated, though Harry had matured enough to realize that he himself may not have acted any differently if he were in Dumbledore's shoes. The old man had consigned Harry to a life of sorrow, not for Harry's sake, but for the sake of the wizarding world. Sure, if Harry had lived with wizards or, at the very least, some random muggle with a warm heart, he might be dead, but he also might have enjoyed his days on Earth a little more. And it seemed a bit false for the same person who consoled people by telling them to accept death as a transition to another adventure, to then turn around and force life upon a boy at whatever cost.

Harry still wasn't sure whether Dumbledore was mocking him in some way. Maybe he felt it was safe to tell him the prophecy, because he saw that Harry was galactically useless with a wand when pitted against Voldemort. Maybe Dumbledore had all kinds of theories, and, only after seeing Harry's wretched performance in the Ministry did he realize that the only possible interpretation of the prophecy was that it was Harry's haywire emotions that the prophecy must have been referring to. After all, what the hell else did he have going for him? He was scrawny, four-eyed and only managed to survive thus far because he had a veritable army working behind the scenes to keep him that way. And if it were truly his emotions that were the key why not love? It made a romantic sort of sense, especially since it was the one thing that the Dark Lord couldn't understand. Well, Harry supposed that weariness, or fatigue, or a sense of hopelessness were also emotions outside Voldemort's range, since the bastard was relentless. But of course, those feelings don't give people a warm fuzzy feeling at night, and somehow, Harry wasn't quite able to buy suicide as the critical decision that would ultimately annihilate the Dark Lord. As such, he was stuck with love.

"And look where that got Lily Evans Potter," he muttered, picking viciously at a loose thread in his already torn and ragged duvet. "The morgue."

With all of that as a backdrop to Harry's attempt at studying, it was no wonder that he found the spleen expulsion curse to be rather useless. Did Voldemort even need a spleen? Wouldn't he have seen to it that his body were immunized from these sorts of curses? Whatever Dumbledore had cast at the Ministry had been incredibly powerful. Harry still remembered the resounding vibration that ran through the floors when Dumbledore's first offense impacted with Voldemort's silver shield. It made no difference what curse Harry used. All that mattered was how powerful it was. The only thing remotely resembling the kind of ludicrous power that Dumbledore had demonstrated that Harry felt he could do was the Patronus Charm, and that was only effective against dementors. And still, he had no clue how to translate that superior magical output to his other spells. Maybe if he just practiced them enough times.

Not that he could practice fuck all stuck in Dudley's second bedroom.

With these thoughts plaguing him, Harry fell into a fitful sleep, unaware that his mind was continuing to process his thoughts, his worries, his concerns, and that, by tomorrow, he would have come to a conclusion about certain things.

Two days after Harry's ruminations, he decided to act. With an air of casualness that belied his resolve, Harry stepped out into the bright morning sunshine of Privet Drive. He wasn't sure whether he was happy or whether he was simply resigned; all he knew for sure was that there were things to do, and it wasn't going to help to just sit around and mope day in and day out. He stopped at the foot of the drive and glanced about, somewhat irritated with himself that he couldn't spot his minders, even though he knew that they were there. Jesus fuck me, he thought with more than a little self-disgust. Like it matters whether I've got a mean evisceration curse when I can't even figure out where the wizards are. Briefly, he remembered Dumbledore being able to spot him sneaking about the castle in his invisibility cloak in first year. He had seen you then, Harry recalled, the thought threatening to ignite the bitterness all over again. Surely if Harry asked, he would get some patronizing response about being a child.

He was also pretty certain that any attempts to study advanced magic would be met with concern. It was bad enough people knew he was a parselmouth, an attribute that he was only now starting to realize could be a gift rather than a curse. All those stupid, Goddamned little Huffelpuffs running around terrified that he was the heir of Slytherin. He let other people push him around, beat him down because he was special. They made him fear his talents. Fucking Huffelpuffs. Well, not anymore. All these years he could have learned from a completely different species, and he threw it away, because of some dim-witted comments from a bunch of twelve year olds.

Snape it seemed, really did have the right of it. Harry was an idiot.

Again, not anymore.

Despite the fact that he couldn't sense them, he knew they were there, watching, bored out of their minds, probably bitter or spiteful that they were stuck babysitting an average talent whelp. With those thoughts in mind, Harry made a point of smirking at the seemingly empty streets, and drawing his wand slowly and casually, as if daring anybody to stop him. Then, with a flick, he summoned the Knight bus and stepped inside just as Stan was beginning his opening speech, Harry catching the sight of a wizard appearing out of thin air to his left, the shimmering fabric of an invisibility cloak being folded up as his minder hastily rushed forward and planted one foot in the doorway of the bus in order to make it on. Harry swiftly dropped the required fare into the drop slot and moved to a vacant part of the bus near the back, not even bothering to check to see who was following him.

A conversation was coming.

Just as he himself turned around and sat down, so did the tall, masculine figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who took a seat right next to him, a gold earring glinting in the sunlight as the bus took off at a ludicrous pace through the streets of London. For a moment, both of them sat in utter silence, Harry wondering idly if they were engaging in some sort of test of wills. Eventually, Shacklebolt decided to speak up and break the silence, and Harry felt what was an admittedly irrational pang of victory. Keep your cool, whatever the cost, Harry thought.

"So, Diagon Alley," Shacklebolt said, his gaze determinedly fixed to the passing landscape outside.

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

"A bit early isn't it?"

Harry simply nodded, and wondered if Shacklebolt were an occlumans or if he just had a natural control over his emotions. "Thought I'd break things up a bit. Go for a stroll, you know."

"I see."

Time passed in what suddenly seemed to Harry to be a more companionable silence. Eventually, he turned his gaze to the intimidating auror and studied him for a long while before inciting conversation. "Don't you get tired of guarding me?" he asked suddenly.

Kingsley glanced his way for a moment, his dark eyes piercing, before returning to look at the passing streets, clearly not intending to provide an answer to that question.

Harry, however, for whatever reason, decided to persist in his inquiry. "I know it may not be the most rational thing in the world, but I admit that I find it rather tiring to be guarded. It makes me wonder a great many things, you see. Like, for example, why is it so important that I be guarded in the first place?" Harry paused and gave the auror a sideways glance, and was elated to see that a flicker of uncertainty crossed his guard's otherwise impassive features. Harry continued, "You're a veteran auror. Highly skilled. Lots of raw power. I saw you duel at the Ministry. There's a war going on, and I can't help but wonder why it is that you're stuck guarding some kid who's apparently already protected by a battery of super powerful wards. Seems like a bit of a waste. Oh sure, I saved the world and all, or at least, that's what the world thinks. Of course, Dumbledore and I know better. It was simply my mother's sacrifice that protected me from the killing curse. As good a gesture as it was, it really only bought us a decade and a half of peace, which has now come to an end. I understand that people are thankful to me and my parents for that reprieve, but does it really warrant twenty-four hour protection? It's not like I can contribute anything to the war now, can I?" Harry paused again to let that question work its way through the auror's mind. When Harry was satisfied that Kingsley had studied the question from all different angles, he continued once more, "Unless of course, there's some missing piece of the puzzle. Maybe I do still have something to contribute to this war. If that were the case, you would have to ask yourself, what exactly is that contribution? What does it consist of? Am I going to be a good fighter? Will I bring down Death Eaters? If so, how many? Am I equal to a Tonks, or a Shacklebolt? How many resources should be deployed to protect me? At what point is the cost of my protection too high? How important am I?" Again, Harry paused before continuing. "So far, it looks like I'm pretty damned important. Not even Albus Dumbledore has twenty-four hour guard protection, and he's pretty damned critical to this war."

"Albus can take care of himself," Kingsley said, though Harry could hear the hesitation in his voice, and, knowing he was breaking down the auror's barriers, he pressed the attack.

"Ah, but there you have it, don't you? The very reason he's so critical to the war is the very reason he doesn't need protection. He can protect himself. He can protect others. He's also incredibly smart, and incredibly knowledgeable. So, I ask you again, what am I? do I have vast reservoirs of knowledge? Do I have superlative cunning with which to strategize? Do I have untapped potential somewhere? Because from where I'm sitting, I'm pretty much useless. Oh sure, I can cast a mean stunner, but I'm hardly in a position to take down more than one Death Eater at a time. Sure, I've still got schooling to go through, an education to receive, but why is it that there's some reason to believe that I'll be better than anyone else when I graduate? Surely you should be protecting someone like Hermione Granger, who no doubt secured the highest test scores since Voldemort, who is keen, brilliant, powerful, so on and so forth. She has just as much invested in this war, since she's a muggle-born, and she's going to be a prime target when Voldemort gets rolling."

Harry fell silent and let Kingsley digest his words. They were almost to Diagon Alley now. Harry determinedly looked away from Shacklebolt, instead choosing to let him work out Harry's words, scrutinize them, mull them over, beat out any flaws in his questioning, and do whatever it is that a logical, analytical, trained professional would do. In the end, he just hoped it would be enough to win the man over, because, while it hadn't been part of his initial plan, he couldn't help but feel that it would be a great benefit to have Shacklebolt on his side.

Finally, Kingsley spoke, "So what's the plan, then?"

There was something in the tone of his voice that made Harry smile, for, as the bus came to a stop and they exited, he knew somehow he had won the auror over, and that sent a thrill of energy rushing through him as palpable and as potent as the victory he felt slaying the basilisk, rescuing Ginny and freeing Dobby. Quite possibly, things were going to change.

Exactly one week later, Harry could be found sitting at his desk in his bedroom at number 4 Privet Drive, intently spilling words onto a page with his feather quill, madly trying to get his work done before his new mentor came knocking on his door. Harry had learned a great many things in the last week, so many things in fact, he was having trouble keeping it all in his head. Some of it he hadn't even really understood, though he was assured great pain and torment if he couldn't perform to Kingsley's standards. He still remembered that conversation as if it were yesterday.

"There are twelve standard spells that I expect you to have mastered by the time we meet next week," Kingsley had said as the pair of them stood at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Casually, Kingsley was changing Harry's features one at a time, applying strong glamour charms as well as cosmetic charms to ensure that Harry was unrecognizable before he was sent into the dark alley. "These are standard fare for efficient operation, and will form the basis of any future learning that you undertake. The first is illusionment. The second is disillusionment. The third is legilimancy. The fourth is occlumancy. The fifth is apparation. The sixth is portkeys. the seventh is conjuration. The eighth is transfiguration. The ninth is the Imperius curse. The tenth is the Obliviation charm. The eleventh is the Constrictus curse. And, last but not least, the Levitation charm."

"But I know the Levitation charm," Harry piped up, wondering how the hell a first year charm got onto that incredibly daunting list.

"I said master it, not just knowing it, Potter." Kingsley said, a bit snappishly. And then, stroking his chin and looking thoughtful, he added, "And learn everything you can about elemental spells. In particular, fire, water, air and earth. You may also wish to look into dark, and light, as well as combination elementals, like lightning, magma, etc. Also, I'll expect you to inform me whether you have an animagus form or not."

Oh. My. God, Harry thought, profoundly perturbed by the growing list of ludicrous and incredibly complex and illegal things he was being asked to learn. Not to mention dangerous. "Er, isn't that stuff dangerous to learn without proper supervision?" he asked tentatively.

Kingsley at first, merely narrowed his eyes. And then, after studying Harry in such a way as to make him start to fidget, the auror leaned down so that he was in Harry's face and said in a deadly low voice, "Is that what you plan to tell the Dark Lord when he strips your skin from your flesh one bit at a time?" And then, parroting Harry's voice, he said, "But I didn't have proper supervision for that!" Kingsley then stood up and said in a cold voice, "The Dark Lord learned every single one of those things without the aid of an instructor. If you truly expect to come out of an encounter with him unscathed, I imagine it would do well for you to set similar goals."

"But you just can't learn things like occlumancy in a week! And without a teacher, no less," Harry insisted.

Kingsley took a calming breath and closed his eyes and seemed to be counting to ten. "Tell me, Potter, why in God's name are you going into Knockturn Alley?"

"Er-" Harry tried to respond.

However, Kingsley clearly wasn't interested in hearing what Harry had to say, because he simply continued onward. "There are things in there that will help you in ways you can't even imagine. Things that are dark, things that are borderline illegal, and things that are supremely dangerous. Part of your task is to go in there, even when you know nothing, and come out having comprehended a great many things. It will take more than sheer braun to survive the Dark Lord. Knockturn Alley is your test of brains."

Harry listened carefully to Kingsley's words, though he found he was having difficulty figuring out just what the hell it all meant. Were there things that could speed up his training? Or enhance him magically? Maybe act as substitutes for the things he was supposed to learn? Kingsley, however, was not interested in hanging around while he pondered these things.

"Oh, and Potter," Kingsley said, already walking away and stopping only to add one more thing to the list. "Lose the glasses. No self-respecting wizard in the auror corps has them."

And with that, Harry had been left to fend for himself. He turned to the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and, after a moment of horror at the prospect of tackling the ludicrous task he had been assigned, Harry proceeded to head into the dark depths, his wand in hand, and an enchanted dagger strapped to his sleeve. He would not fail, and not just because he felt there was an underlying warning in Shacklebolt's words if he did not succeed, but because he understood acutely the importance of every single one of the skills that Kingsley had instructed him to learn. Unconsciously, his mind flitted back to those grueling sessions in third year with Remus Lupin where Harry subjected himself to the presence of a boggart-dementor in order to master the Patronus charm. "Again," he had said after having passed out. Again, and again, and again, he had been prepared to suffer without pause, without reprieve to catch his breath, despite the difficulty of the charm, despite the fact that it was hopeless to even try to master it at the tender age of thirteen. And yet he had done so, and he had done it spectacularly. And why? Because he was stubborn. Mindlessly so, in fact. Because the power the Dark Lord knows not, is Harry's sheer, inexorable obstinacy.

And so, one week later, having trained sixteen hours a day for nearly seven consecutive days, amounting to over a hundred hours of practice time, Harry having put himself through the most intensive and extensive magical training he had ever undergone, a task which tested his magical limits to its very edge and then some, sending his magical core clear into the abyss, forcing him to tap into pools of energy he never knew he had, he came out partly manic, partly depressed, partly insane, and feeling more alive than he ever had in his entire life.

Harry finished scribbling down everything he knew about elemental spells just as the doorbell rang. He jumped up and out of his chair and raced downstairs, passing Dudley who was lying down on the sofa like a mindless log, a glassy look still in his eyes from the over fifty obliviations that he had been subjected to. Harry wondered if he had been a bit too enthusiastic in his attempts. In truth, every single time one of his relatives so much as looked his way, he had cast a spell on them, whether it be the imperius, the obliviation, or a minor transfiguration. It was good practice, after all.

"Hey," Harry said, looking up at the tall auror.

Kingsley just nodded in acknowledgement before stepping inside and surveying the landscape. "I trust you've done what I instructed you to do."

In response, Harry conjured a nondescript flat disc, twisting his wand at the last second in order to stabilize the conjuration, in the same way one ties a knot in a balloon to hold the air in. Once satisfied with his work, he then muttered under his breath, "Portis," causing the disc to glow blue momentarily. "Ready?" Harry asked, turning to the auror and smirking.

Kingsley merely nodded, his eyes still fixed on the conjured object. "You've programmed it using the coordinates I specified?"

"The very ones I just picked out of your thoughts," Harry said, his smirk broadening into a full blown grin.

Kingsley merely nodded again and then placed one hand on the portkey. Harry followed suit and soon, they were whisked away to an undisclosed location of Kingsley's own making in order to train the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Again," commanded Kingsley.

Harry fired off another stunner, which streaked across an empty room and hit what looked like a dartboard on the far wall. A number momentarily appeared: 2.2. Not very impressive, especially since he had started off at 1.9 and, after thirty minutes of continually firing off stunners, he had hardly improved.

"Useless," Kingsley roared, he having lost his temper at Harry's mediocre performance and firing a stunner at the dartboard, a 5 showing up. "The Dark Lord can easily generate a ten, and possibly twelve or thirteen if provoked. That's enough to stun a dragon, and kill an adult male in his prime. You need a stunner strong enough to knock out an enemy for the entire battle. A two will only serve to knock them out long enough for one of their allies to enervate them. I expect at least a three by the end of the day. If you really are a magical prodigy, then I expect a stunner powerful enough to punch through a shield and still incapacitate an opponent with enough force to hospitalize them."

"But-" Harry began.

"No buts!" Kingsley pointed his wand at Harry and made a jabbing motion so that a pinprick of blood appeared on his wrist. "One for every failure. Now begin."

And so, Harry continued for another fifteen minutes, casting one stunner after the next. Watching hopelessly as the numbers appearing on the dartboard went from 2.2 slowly to 2.3 and then, to his horror, after the tenth pinprick, down to 2.2 again and, shortly thereafter,, down to 2.1. "Oh my God," Harry said, dropping his wand, horrified. "It's not possible. It's like I'm getting weaker!"

Kingsley, did not bother inflicting another miniscule cut on the boy, his mind working furiously to understand the problem. He had seen firsthand Harry's patronus, and, while it wasn't going to repel a hundred dementors, it was corporeal and above average in strength, even for a professional. Clearly, it could deflect a half a dozen dementors, and Kingsley did not believe that Sirius had been lying when he claimed that Harry's patronus had saved him from a hundred of the dark creatures. The most obvious difference between now and then, of course, was that then, it was a life threatening situation.

Is that what Harry needed to act? Real live danger? It hardly seemed like the kind of thing that Kingsley wanted to be doing, though he supposed he could try to simply trick the boy into thinking there was danger when there really wasn't any at all. Still, he couldn't rely on adrenalin alone. Often times, he would be called upon to perform complex magic where adrenaline wouldn't be useful, and he would still need to draw on that reservoir of energy which he apparently had. Perhaps the boy simply needs a better goal. Something more tangible; something which appears to produce better results. He never tried hard academically. Not unless he could see a real benefit, like working in front of a dementor. Curious that Lupin had made him practice in front of one instead of having him perfect the charm beforehand. That is how he did it with the kids in the DA.

"All right," Kingsley said, still showing nothing more than a cold, menacing facade, he levitated Harry's wand, which had fallen uselessly to the floor and banished it at the boy, who had gone off to go sulk in a corner. "Come here. We're going to try this again, only with a slightly different angle. Cast the Levitation charm on the spellchecker."

Harry sighed and seemed to drag his feet enough that Kingsley sent a small electrical shock at him, causing Harry to jolt upright at the pain and glare at his mentor. Kingsley just raised an eyebrow, and Harry, deciding it was not worth getting electrocuted a second time, swiftly made it to Kingsley's side.

"Wingardiem leviosa," Harry said in a weary, resigned tone. The spell hit dead on, once again impressing Kingsley with the boy's pinpoint accuracy. The number 1.2 showed up. Clearly, the natural aptitude the boy had with defense spells did not transfer over to any other subject in the world. Harry was about to cast again, when Kingsley stopped him.

"No," the auror said. "I want you to instead levitate that block of balsa wood." About ten feet from the dartboard was a block of lightweight wood one cubic foot in volume. Harry shrugged and did as he was instructed. The wood rose easily enough.

"Good," Kingsley said. "Now, put it down."

Kingsley then transfigured the wood from balsa to pine. "All right," he said. "Again."

Harry did so, though this time with greater difficulty.

"Was that harder?" Kingsley asked.

"Harry just grunted before letting the object fall to the ground. Kingsley transfigured it again, this time to oak. "Again," he instructed.

Harry did so, though the wood did not come off the ground so much as it simply trembled.

"Don't stop," Kingsley commanded fiercely. "Keep it coming."

As instructed, Harry continued to maintain the connection between his wand and the object, fiercely trying to lift it. The object came off the ground just a little, but no more than that.

Kingsley transfigured the wood from oak to mahogany, making it that much heavier. "More," Kingsley commanded.

Harry was now visibly straining, sweat starting to pour down his face. "I can't," Harry said through gritted teeth, his wand arm trembling.

"Oh, you can't, can't you?" Kingsley asked, starting to grow frustrated. "Well, let's see then." He turned his wand on Harry, but instead of hitting him with a pain curse, he hit Harry with something else. Harry felt a tingling sensation wash over him and then he felt something form inside him, like a barrier. he glanced over at Kingsley and wandlessly ghosted his surface thoughts, realizing that the auror had bound his magic so that he could only perform the Levitation charm with his wand. Harry wasn't sure how that was going to help. That is, until he saw Kingsley point his wand at the block of wood and transfigure it into a Siberian timberwolf. A Siberian timberwolf with heavy chains all over its body. Kingsley then cast the Imperius curse on it and said aloud, "Come forward and kill the boy."

At that pronouncement, the wolf began to drag its weighted down body forward inch by agonizing inch, its dark eyes now fixed on Harry, who was looking at Kingsley with shock and a whole new level of dawning fear. "You can't! You wouldn't!"

Kingsley, however, simply turned to face Harry and said in a disturbingly expressionless voice. "You've wasted enough of my time as it is, Potter. I have no qualms about feeding you to my new pet. Especially since you're already convinced that your existence is merely hampering the fight against the Dark Lord, an assertion that I have already come to believe. If we can't turn you into something useful, then we may as well get you out of the way."

Harry, his mouth agape, turned back to the wolf, which had closed the distance from ten feet to eight. Kingsley took a step back and, in a fit of pure genius, calmly said, "If it's too heavy for you, I can always strip off some of its chains." Kingsley then vanished some of the weights that were holding down the wolf so that it was both lighter and able to move toward Harry at a faster rate.

"NO!" Harry cried out instinctively, the creature now only five feet from him. Having nothing else to do, Harry pointed his wand and bellowed, "Wingardiem Leviosa!" The spell struck home and, just as before, it did not manage to levitate the creature, which Harry suspected was close to half a metric tonne. Maintaining the connection, Harry continued to pour energy into the creature, his mind whirling, desperately searching for the energy that would permit him to arrest the wolves motion.

Three feet away. "WINGARDIEM LEVIOSA!" Harry practically shrieked, and, after a brief second where he thought he had failed yet again, the creature seemed to tremble before slowly rising, its outstretched claws less than a foot from his wand.

"Hold it," said Kingsley. "Feel it. Feel that energy, because, Potter, I swear to God, when you cast that spell again, I expect to see the same level of output." And then, to Harry's horror, Kingsley made the initial chains reappear, so that Harry's spell faltered under the new weight. when Harry seemed to have regained control of the spell, Kingsley simply added more chains, and then more chains and yet more, until Harry could hold the spell no longer. The wolf fell to the ground, and Harry scampered backward to get away from it, only after a moment realizing that the creature was being crushed under the added weight of metal. The wolf growled and whimpered and, before long, Kingsley transfigured it back and banished the block of innocent looking wood to the far wall.

"Get up," Kingsley commanded. "And cast the Levitation charm on the spellchecker."

Harry did so, and, to his surprise, he scored a 3.0.

"No doubt you reached an output somewhat higher when you were confronted with the wolf. Probably closer to 5. That's to be expected. Everybody puts out more when confronted with dangerous situations."

"Would you have really let it kill me?" Harry asked quietly, his gaze cast down to the floor.

For a moment, Kingsley considered lying and saying yes, but, seeing that Harry was starting to wilt under his iron fist regime, decided to relax a bit. "No, Potter, I wouldn't have. Though I might have let it take a swipe at you. Still though, I cannot guarantee that you won't come very close to death while we train. It simply wouldn't be realistic otherwise. Also, as it is clear from today's exercise, you respond much better under pressure."

"Like you said. Everybody-"

"No," Kingsley responded vehemently. "Your scores are significantly higher when under pressure. You jumped from a resting spell count of 1.2 to 3.0, and in less than fifteen minutes. I have no doubt you're thinking that others, most probably, Hermione Granger, could do likewise, but I am telling you right now that she could not. I suspect that her starting output will be higher than yours, but she will not make the significant leaps and bounds that you are. I am confident that you, given the right impetus, will exceed all your peers. Your patronus proves it, Potter. never forget that."

"Yeah, well, we can't have me trying everything on a weighted down timberwolf, can we?" Harry muttered, still irritable from the whole affair.

"No, we can't, which is why you're going to think long and hard about channeling your flow of energy to create powerful spells." Kingsley summoned the spellchecker and handed it to Harry. "Our time is up. You're going to take this home and use it relentlessly. I expect to see some serious results by the time we meet next week. I expect that not a single spell will score less than a 3.0. If it does, the consequences will be dire."

"Dire?" Harry repeated, trying to figure out how much more dire things could get.

Kingsley nodded. "Especially since next week, we will duel."

Ah, Harry thought grimly. That was quite the incentive indeed.

By the time Harry's birthday rolled around, he had spent five weeks engaging in virtually non-stop magical and physical and mental training. It was probably safe to say that, in his mind's eye, at least, he was gearing up for war.

"There is not much more that I can teach you, Harry," said Kingsley, conjuring a cup of tea as they sat across from one another in the Dursley's dining room. Currently, Vernon was under the imperius, Dudley was stunned and Petunia had been drugged with a sleeping potion.

Harry simply looked incredulous, but before he could speak, Kingsley raised a hand to forestall his objections.

"Let me explain. I have spoken very little of your achievements thus far, and for very good reason. You learn best while under pressure. Do you remember the list of things I instructed you to learn that very first week?"

"How could I forget?" Harry replied dryly. "I was scared shitless."

Kingsley smiled. "You know, I didn't honestly expect you to make headway in half of those things. The fact that you learned portkeys, permanent conjuration and rudimentary legilimancy were astonishing enough, not to mention the obliviation charm and the imperius curse. I don't even know how you went about correcting your eyesight. I'd thought that task was impossible. And not a week after that, you successfully disillusioned yourself, as well as remote objects, and created illusions and glamours, and developed basic occlumancy shields that were enough to hide your presence from powerful legilimans. You not only managed the Constrictus curse, but you also intuitively understood how it could be applied in a duel to circumvent barriers and magical shields. Your transfiguration has improved significantly, and your control over elements is progressing at a reasonable pace. You've also developed your magical output to a range of four to five, which, incidentally, is approximately the same as my magical output. And let me tell you, Harry, I'm hardly a slouch." Kingsley then shook his head and stared off at a point somewhere over Harry's head. "Each week, I set more complex and more difficult goals - goals which I did not expect you to be able to meet, and yet you persisted and succeeded each time. Whatever it is that has spurred you on, has worked miracles."

"Yeah, but it's not like I can fight the Dark Lord. He'd still mop the floor with me," Harry said. "So how can you say that my training is complete?"

A flash of irritation stretched across Kingsley's face before it disappeared. "Did I say your training is complete, Harry?"

"Er, no," replied Harry, a bit sheepishly.

"Honestly. Learning to hold your tongue should be your very next lesson."

"Sorry."

Kingsley then continued. "As you no doubt are aware, I am proficient in a wide range of areas. Areas which we have already covered. However, I am not a master in any one of them. That is the difference between someone like me and someone like the Dark Lord. He has spent decades learning transfiguration and curses and arithmancy and runes and God only knows what else to a level that has allowed him to understand magic in ways that I have no idea about. He has also undergone transformations, from what I understand, that have increased his magical strength, his stamina, his durability, so on and so forth. He has travelled the world studying under masters, learning, participating in dozens of battles, building himself, learning himself, understanding others. He has probably undergone transformations that have supplied him with unique skills that I could only guess at."

Harry nodded. "I see."

"I am confident that wherever you go from here, whatever you put your mind to, you will succeed at. We've only touched upon the most basic of healing, though it is sufficient for combat purposes. Unfortunately, combat healing is something that I am relatively weak in. Tonks would be a better bet, if you're interested in pursuing that area. Within a week, I'm sure you'll need Pomfrey's expertise, however."

"They can't teach me," Harry said in a calm, but firm tone.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow in a questioning way.

Seeing that he was being prompted to continue, Harry went on, "You said it yourself. I'm not properly motivated to learn those things. Everything you've shown me I've understood on an intuitive level that it's really important for fighting and survival. But when Professor McGonagall teaches us transfiguration, she teaches us in an academic sort of way, not in a technical, military application way. It's hard to see the use in that. Often, the value is so far down the road, I have trouble getting motivated to pursue it."

"I understand. That is why I think you'd make a lousy auror."

Displaying uncharacteristically sophisticated insight, Harry simply agreed. "I know. I'd be better off as some sort of independent contractor."

"Precisely."

"So what now then?" Harry asked. "Is that it?"

"I can only suggest to you avenues to go. If I could train you myself in these areas, I would be happy to," Kingsley said sincerely. "I have had the misfortune of training auror recruits, and let me tell you, they don't learn half the things you've learned in twice as much time. It has been a pleasure working with you."

Harry blushed.

"From here," Kingsley continued, not missing a beat and seemingly oblivious of the effect his praise was having on his protégé, "I would suggest that you study enchantments, wards and wandless magic. You should also learn complex conjurations, like pistols, and other such objects that have moving parts. It is probably the most difficult conjuration you can do, but it is highly rewarding. The ability to pull a pistol out of midair will give you an unprecedented advantage against your opponents. In particular if you can do it wandlessly. There is also time magic, though I cannot think of a single person who would be able to teach it to you. You have also only learned the most basic form of apparation. I also understand that you are a parselmouth. I would suggest exploring that talent as well. You should also continue to master mass levitation and conjuration spells, both increasing the quantity and the precision. Lastly, I would suggest that you continue with your animagus project. I can take you little further in that area."

"You're going to tell me to go to McGonagall, aren't you?" Harry asked.

Kingsley nodded.

"There's no way she'll teach me."

"Don't be so certain. I have no doubt that you will surprise many people in your class this coming year. She may be suitably impressed. Especially as you have already begun the process. However, she will most likely require you to register with the Ministry, which is something you may not wish to do. Black's animagus form proved invaluable, as you well know, and partly that was because nobody knew of it. I also understand that he is self-taught. While I wouldn't condone such a thing generally, given how dangerous it is, I am sure that if you embark on that same path, you will likely succeed. It is your way, after all. Incidentally, how's it coming along?"

"I know what my form is, or at least I think I do. Still, I'm rather baffled by it all."

"Why is that?" Kingsley asked.

"Because it's magical."

Kingsley chuckled. "I suppose I should have known. It would be like you to defy convention. Let me guess, it's something truly astounding like a dragon or a nundu. Hell, perhaps a phoenix."

"A unicorn," Harry said, scowling.

Kingsley merely raised an eyebrow yet again. "Interesting. Have you begun any kind of work on it?"

Harry nodded. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I have done what you suggested and began studying the anatomy of unicorns in-depth. At first I had to study from books on horses, because nobody would dare desecrate a unicorn body by dissecting it. That is, until I remembered that Voldemort was all too happy killing unicorns. As such, I went back to Knockturn Alley and found a dark arts book that detailed with gruesome precision the finer points of unicorn physiology. I've also done a lot of meditating, as you suggested. It's helped a great deal with my occlumancy and my spell casting as well. Sometimes, I think I can even feel my magic. You know, the way you feel it when you pick up your wand after a long time."

"Unicorns are magically powerful creatures. It will be most interesting to see if you develop any of their talents."

Harry agreed enthusiastically. "They are highly sensitive to dark magic, and are spell resistant. They have a very powerful sixth sense."

"I've been told that it's nearly impossible to sneak up on a unicorn," Kingsley added. "If that ability translates to your human self, you will have a great advantage."

"Do you reckon I'm in a position to help with the Order?" Harry asked.

Kingsley considered the question carefully. After a several seconds, he responded, "I believe that, if Albus thinks there's a critical role for you to play, such as destroying the Dark Lord, then I think it would be irresponsible not to expose you to many of the dangers that you will eventually face, at least in some form or degree. Unless of course there are other circumstances that I am not aware of."

"yeah, I thought so. But he'll never do that."

"No, I don't believe he will."

"I'll instead just be forced to sit here ad nauseum, toying with my relatives." Harry let out a long, suffering sigh. "All the magical knowledge in the world won't help me if I lack much needed experience. It's like you said, the Dark Lord's been through innumerable battles. he's had a great deal of experience through which to examine his own self, identify his weaknesses and then take steps to correct them. I'm afraid I will need that kind of experience as well. The kind where you learn never to hesitate drawing your wand. Where you either cast a 5.0 or you die trying. If I weren't just a thing to be protected, if I could just have held my own a little bit better like I can now, Bellatrix would not have gotten away. Sirius may still be alive."

"I was under the impression that his death was the catalyst that galvanized you to become a fighter."

Harry shook his head, it now being his turn to stare off into the distance. "No, or at least, it was only a part of it. You see, Albus told me right afterwards why it was that I had to be protected. Why it was that the Dark Lord was hell bent on killing me. It all revolves around this prophecy. Apparently I have some sort of special power that the Dark Lord knows not, and that only that power can be used to vanquish him."

"That is a rather severe thing to tell you. Especially when you clearly have no clue what that special power is."

"Dumbledore thinks it's love."

Kingsley nodded. "I imagine he would. Especially in light of what you told me about your mother's sacrifice."

Harry just nodded. "Yeah."

They sat in silence for a long time, the sound of the wind rushing through the hedges filtering in through the open windows, the taste of mulberry in the summer air.

"You didn't hear this from me," Kingsley spoke up suddenly, "but there are other places where battles are fought in this world. Not just here in Britain. There are dark wizard hunters on the continent, skirmishes in the Americas. Explorations in deep jungles and forests where all manner of dangerous creatures live. I've been told that some people elect to do practicum work in lieu of their NEWTS. There might be something available for you in places like that."

Kingsley's words awakened some dormant need in Harry. Whether it was because he needed to be in the thick of life threatening situations, or whether it was because he wanted to test out his new skills, or whether it was because he needed an escape from the emotional baggage that Britain and Hogwarts and Death Eaters carried with them, he did not know. "What kind of things?" Harry asked eagerly, leaning close to hear his mentor's response.

"Hmm," Kingsley said, leaning back and thinking about it. "Where to begin..."


	2. Umbrella

A/N: Hi all,

Okay, here's chapter two. A couple of things. Thank you to those who reviewed the previous chapter. I've been travelling on and off these past few weeks, so I haven't responded to some of the reviews. I'll try to do better in the future.

Also, I've no clue where this story's going. I figure I ought to let people know that before they come along for the ride.

Comments and suggestions are all welcome.

Chapter Two

Umbrella

It was the middle of summer, and Buffy, one of a great many slayers, was trying to figure out how it was that everything had gotten so fucked up. It seemed that annihilating an entire town hadn't exactly been the smartest move to make, even though it had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, it meant that the Hellmouth would be sealed for a very long time, and that was great news given the First's propensity to try and crack it wide open. And now that there were in the realm of a bazillion slayers running around capable of fighting all the baddies out there, the burden she had shouldered for so long had been diffused greatly. In the span of a day, the tables had turned so that the forces of good were no longer the underdogs. They were the top dogs.

Wasn't that supposed to be a good thing?

Apparently not.

The destruction of Sunnydale had garnered a great deal of attention from neighbouring counties. There had even been a TV news crew all the way from L.A. running around taking pictures and asking questions, and while most ordinary citizens had been content to accept the explanation that a localized earthquake had smoothly and efficiently swallowed a town whole, there were others out there who were not quite so satisfied. Scientists had begun asking piercing questions about why it was that the results of the quake did not conform to any prescribed standards. Where were the cracks? The fissures? the post-quake seismic activity? Worse yet, many of the inhabitants had left in advance, and were now quoted as claiming that they all felt premonitions of demonic evil. How in God's name did they know that? At the time, Buffy had been mostly just relieved that the innocents were getting out of dodge, but now, their survival was raising uncomfortable questions.

It wasn't so much that she had to answer to anybody. Nobody even knew that she and her cohorts had survived and escaped on a bus bound for somewhere far away. At least, mostly nobody.

And there was the rub. There existed only one person outside the Scooby club who had any knowledge about slayers and Hellmouths and evil beings and about her. And he just so happened to be with the military. Riley.

The sun set on the Western horizon and cast Buffy in a golden glow. Absently, she scattered the ashes of the fire the few survivors had been using to cook their food that day. Dawn sidled up next to her as did Willow and Xander. They were the only ones left now after twenty-four long and brutal days being hunted by shadowy figures in the night. Of the thirty or so slayers that survived Sunnydale, two thirds had been sent to the UK and the continent, leaving nine plus herself to work on uprooting any remaining power bases in North America. Within a week, however, they had started being hunted, and not by anything as pedestrians as vampires or demons or even the First. Instead, they were being hunted by soldiers; soldiers with state-of-the-art military technology, long range weapons, sophisticated stealth technology and God only knew what else. More disturbing yet was the simple fact that they weren't being hunted for the purposes of extermination. Extermination was something Buffy could understand; it had always been the way of things. Ever since she had been blessed and cursed with this power, she had been targeted for eradication by all the dark forces that the underworld could throw at her. No, this was something else. They were trying to capture them, though for what purposes was anybody's guess. Secretly though, Buffy thought she had a pretty good idea why. It was the initiative all over again. They were going to experiment on her, test her, drug her, synthesize her, transform her into a mindless tool. Like Adam.

And so, on the cusp of victory against the First, in a time where she was supposed to be liberated from her ceaseless burden, she was made to stand against a new darkness. An evil unlike any other she had ever faced before. The darkness of Man.

So now what?" Dawn asked, curling up in a ragged little blanket and inching closer to the fire, desperate to keep warm amidst the unusually chilly night air.

Willow was busy weaving together a protective ward that would keep intruders out long enough to alert them, and Xander was checking and re-checking the firearms they had pilfered from dropped soldiers.

In truth, Buffy had little clue how to answer Dawn's question. Part of her wished that Dawn would not ask such questions, even though she knew they needed asking. Buffy's initial instinct was to supply false words of comfort, but, knowing how hollow they would sound after being so long on the run and having been picked off one person at a time, she instead opted for quietly saying, "I don't know, Dawn."

"There," Willow said, plopping down next to the sisters. "The protective shield is now fully operational, commander."

Xander too took a seat and reached over to grab a hot dog on a fork, which he promptly stuck in the way of the fire for some tasty roasting.

"Could almost pretend it's a camping trip," Willow said with loads of irritatingly false cheer.

"Mmph," Xander agreed, already stuffing the wiener in his mouth.

"Ew, you hardly cooked that," Dawn said, scowling at Xander's consumption of the processed meat.

"I like it rare," he managed to say between mouthfuls.

"That is so gross."

Xander shook his head emphatically. "No, it's not. Let me tell you what gross is, kid. Gross is not having taken a shower for four days. Gross is the fact that we're communing with insects in our sleep. This-" he lifted the fork with the half eaten wiener, "is just about the least gross thing about all four of us."

"Point taken," Dawn said, sighing. "So, what the hell are we going to do?"

"Keep running?" Willow offered. "And pray to all the Gods and Goddesses that somebody nice finds us?"

"Argh!" Dawn wailed, pulling at her hair in an act of histrionic frustration. "I can't take this anymore!"

At Dawn's proclamation, everyone fell silent, the only sound remaining the continual crackling of the fire.

"They're all going to get us, aren't they," Dawn said in a defeated tone, her words echoing all their sentiments. "It's only a matter of time. And then they're going to do all kinds of evil things with us."

"No," Xander said firmly. "That's not what's going to happen. We called Giles. He knows what's going on out here. He won't let them get us. Why, slayers and other kickass Watcher Council types are probably on their way as we speak. We just need to hold out for another couple of days. You know, make it to a city give them a ring on the old mobile. They'll collect us in no time, and then we can let ourselves be whisked away to some secret, underground safehouse where big brother can't get us."

"Yeah," Willow agreed tentatively. "You'll see, Dawn. They won't get us."

Dawn, however, did not respond. Instead, she merely nodded and turned her gaze to the darkness beyond the firelight, all the while wondering, watching, waiting to see whether unknown figures would approach.

Dawn awoke to the crisp morning sunshine of yet another day of hiding amidst the rocky outcroppings that marked the mountainous landscape they were now in. Buffy had decided that their best bet for survival was to hole up in the mountains for several days and hopefully lose their pursuers. Between Willow's magic and Buffy's superior strength and agility, they would easily be able to hide and outrun any soldiers that were after them. At least, they would be in a better position to spy on the predators without being seen, and, hopefully, present a return attack.

It appeared, however, that Buffy's assessment had proven somewhat incorrect.

"Buffy?" Dawn called quietly in the eerie silence. "Willow?" Dawn got to her feet and took a moment to wander about their small campsite. Willow's things appeared to be all present, as did Buffy's, and, while Xander was contentedly snoring away in his makeshift sleeping bag, Buffy and Willow were nowhere to be seen. After several minutes of lurking about in the cold blue morning air, and calling out their names, a chill began seeping up through her spine. They were taken, she realized. Somehow, in the middle of the night, they were taken, and neither Xander nor I knew about it. We hadn't heard a single thing. Quickly, Dawn knelt by Xander's side and began poking and prodding him. He'll know what to do, she thought desperately, panic replacing her otherwise exuberant self. "Xander! Wake up!" Dawn poked him hard and with frantic urgency in his kidney area.

"Mmm, no more kruellers, thanks," he muttered and rolled over to avoid Dawn's prods.

"Xander, you damnable clod! Get your tight little ass out of that blanket right this instant!" she shouted, her voice carrying through the mountain range and returning as an echo.

"Wha-?" he said, bolting upright and looking wildly from side to side.

"Xander, they're gone," Dawn said, the tears once again creeping to the forefront.

"Gone?" he repeated, blinking owlishly. "Who's gone?"

"Buffy and Willow! They've been taken!"

After a moment of processing, Dawn's words seemed to take effect, for Xander turned his gaze to the empty beds of Willow and Buffy and stared long and hard at them. "Gone," he repeated. "You sure?"

'Dawn simply nodded, unable to speak.

Xander went to their beds and checked them closely. Everything seemed to be in order. So much so that their blankets appeared to have been stripped off with gentle care. And, more disturbing still, none of their belongings had been moved an inch from the night before, or at least, to Xander's best recollection, nothing appeared to have been shifted. "They were taken in their sleep," Xander muttered to himself, mentally reconstructing the previous night's events. "They must have been drugged or-" he glanced around and, after a moment of searching in the early morning light, his gaze came to rest on an unfamiliar canister. Collecting it from where it sat near the extinguished fire, he sniffed its contents and examined it carefully. "Sleeping gas," he concluded. "Somehow, they got it past Willow's shield. We never had a chance."

Dawn came up next to him and stared at the canister as though it held the secret to Buffy and Willow's location. "It can't be," Dawn said, her mind not quite able to believe that her big sister. The infamous slayer, the protector of all the innocents, the one who had been there for her thick and thin over the course of her short but very strange life. "How?" she asked, though to no one in particular. In truth, there was no answer to that question. It wasn't so much about finding out how it was that Buffy had been taken. No, the answer to that lay in Xander's hand. It was more about how it had all come to this. How was it that the world's saviour, a girl who had given so much, had been treated like this, forced to flee and watch her friends picked off one by one, only to be taken herself. "Why didn't they take us?" Dawn asked.

Xander sighed. "Because, Dawn, we're nothing special. No magical powers. No Chosen One status. We're just plain old ordinary humans."

Dawn snorted. "As if we haven't been through our fair share of crap in this world."

"Yeah, well, apparently that's not good enough to join the elite. Of course you knew that though."

"Yeah, we've always known that, haven't we?"

Xander nodded. "Yeah, we have."

Dawn knelt down and began packing up her things. "Come on, we've got work to do."

"Work?" Xander asked, tossing the canister aside and pillaging Willow's and Buffy's things for anything useful they could take with them.

"Yeah, work. We're getting our family back. Those motherfuckers are going to rue the day they ever crossed Xander Harris and Dawn Summers." Having collected her belongings, Dawn stood and shouldered her pack, a determined expression on her face as she looked up into Xander's eyes.

"They stared at each other for a long time, Dawn's resolve turning infectious as the sun ascended the clear blue Nevada sky. After a time, Xander nodded. "Yeah, let's do it then."

Nicolai Ivanovna did not have a wife, nor did he have kids. Unlike his American counterpart, Brett Hayes, he was a complete bastard and lived for only one thing. Hunting. That was perhaps why the industrial megagiant Umbrella appealed to him. For the last fifteen years, they had given him exactly what he wanted. Having the depraved indifference of a psychopath to the lives he took, Nicolai found himself moving up quickly through Umbrella's military arm with each passing mission. When it came to espionage and torture, Nicolai excelled.

Nicolai was currently transmitting a short report of his platoon's progress through the dark fields outside Birmingham. His GPS tracker informed him that they were steadily approaching the edge of the memory field that insulated the wizards from prying muggle eyes. Nicolai had seen and done enough in his life that, the news of the existence of wizards hadn't fazed him terribly. He took it in stride, much like his cadre of soldiers, who he had handpicked for this particular mission. The only thing that had surprised him so far was the fact that Umbrella had not discovered the magical world's existence earlier. He was certain that bureaucratic heads were going to roll somewhere for the fuck up. Nobody kept crucial information like this out of the hands of Umbrella. He secretly hoped that he would be assigned to that mission. Assassinating high profile targets was particularly appealing to him. Especially if he got the chance to rape proper ladies. The wives of senators were like a fine wine. Their indignation was intoxicating.

Nicolai flashed an electromagnetic sensor that alerted his soldiers to stop. They had found the field. Of all the tricks and trades of wizards, the anti-muggle repulsion ward was undoubtedly the most ubiquitous primary defense. Nicolai had read no less than four separate military dossiers on the magical world, including one dedicated exclusively to this so-called Lord Voldemort. A part of him was impressed that such beings existed, and a part of him was disappointed. At the end of the day, they were soft bags of flesh, like everybody else. The trick to defeating them was simply catching them off guard. From what he understood, they were at a major tactical disadvantage, having no knowledge of the sophistication of muggle technology. That meant that his team would have one chance to strike a lethal blow against them. He was certain that, if Lord Voldemort were permitted to execute a counterstrike, none of them would be left alive. They had the power to disappear and reappear at will, and they had the power to control people's minds. Nicolai unconsciously found himself salivating at the prospect. If he had such power... Nicolai had once taken to reading in-depth reports on all the failed mind control experiments conducted during the sixties and seventies. He had been enchanted by the prospect of programming lackies to do his bidding. However, he had never been able to find a thread, an unexplored avenue that might take him somewhere in the experimentation that his predecessors had overlooked. It was simply not meant to be. Until now. If he could harness the power of magic - it was times like this he was truly thankful for being a twisted fuck.

In the dead silence of the pre-dawn hours, in the middle of the British countryside, three paratroopers landed silently inside the wards of the Bones ancestral home. Nicolai could only faintly make out the sounds of their movements as they rummaged about and set up their tools.

It had taken nearly a week of covert surveillance coupled with a lot of theorizing and guesswork to get an idea about how the muggle repulsion ward operated. Their best theory was that it had roughly the shape of a fence, approximately ten feet high, and that it had a width of somewhere between one and three metres. From their calculations, the field did not need to cover anymore area, because one step would activate the field, which was foolproof against unsuspecting muggles. However, for those who knew of its existence, it was a surmountable obstacle, as Nicolai and his team were demonstrating.

The three paratroopers, having parachuted inside the ward boundaries, immediately began setting to work. One was employing a series of sensors, sound and UV and infrared, in order to begin gathering data on their surroundings. One moved ahead to scout the terrain. The third was uncoiling a long aluminum chain with a hook on one hand. This chain was the key instrument in overcoming the muggle repulsion ward. The soldier, Carter, tossed the end of the chain into the darkness in the direction of Nicolai and his eleven soldiers. He kept one gloved hand tightly gripping the chain and waited silently for Nicolai and his soldiers to locate the other end. On a mission this sensitive, nobody dared speak aloud, and nobody dared shine a light. The soldiers relied on sophisticated sonar tools, mental maps, trigonometry, and taps on the shoulder to interact with their environment. Currently, Nicolai would be using a simple magnet to ferret out the aluminum chain. From there he would work silently and in the dark attaching the chain to a large sled, which Carter could then pull across the repulsion ward. Nicolai would take eight soldiers along with him while three remained behind to keep watch and provide sniper cover should the dozen on the inside need it.

Nicolai and his eight soldiers all stuffed themselves onto the sled, and they each proceeded to inoculate themselves with a minor tranquilizer. This would prevent them from being able to jump off the sled once it came into contact with the ward. Soon, they were across and Carter was administering a stimulant to neutralize the tranquilizer. Within ten minutes, there were now twelve soldiers on the inside, and three on the out.

Nicolai double-checked that his radio transceiver was operational. Satisfied everything was in order, they proceeded forward, fanning out and forming two lines as they closed in on the Bones home, all the while, Nicolai was receiving communications from both the scout and from the snipers. Silently, they crept along, Nicolai aware acutely of the oppressive silence that filled the air. Somehow, the world was darker, more sinister, more quiet on this side of the fence. It made Nicolai heady with anticipation. Something about the taste of magic called to him. Like a kindred spirit.

Tacticians had pored over the copious volumes of video and sound recordings and the reports of the various scouts they had sent to feel out the area. This coupled, with some rudimentary knowledge of magic, gave them a pretty good idea of the manor's outer defenses. Wizards had been seen crossing the repulsion ward without any difficulties. This was not a surprise. The dossier had contained information that wizards could key wards to the presence of magic in the object. Tacticians had also noted that animals had difficulty moving between the repulsion ward. This was a very good thing for the muggle tacticians, because they did not, as of yet, have any technology that could let them observe magic directly. As such, they did not have a comprehensive understanding of what blockades were present beyond the muggle repulsion ward. A number of theories had been batted about. Possibly, the only wards beyond the repulsion ward were targeted specifically at magical folk, since there would be an expectation that muggles would not have been able to get that far. This made sense for the most part, but no one wanted to send soldiers blind into what could be a deathtrap. Someone else postulated that, because the repulsion ward had difficulty distinguishing between muggle humans and muggle animals, other wards on the premises would have the same difficulty. Therefore, the soldiers had with them a collection of trained puppies, each having been rendered mute and placed on a long collar with an EM transmitter around their necks. They could then be sent ahead, their distances measured and then followed. Not knowing whether height might play a factor, they all crouched down and crawled forward, wary of having their heads chopped off by some unknown ward.

It had taken Umbrella six whole days to accept that the Dark Lord's base of operations was too well fortified and that there were too many unknowns to orchestrate an assault. Umbrella decided then to move to plan B, which was to find a secondary magical site and target it for termination. After a lot of probing, much of it done by satellite, the executives at Umbrella's military subsidiary, Wartech Inc., happened upon a large home outside Birmingham that was not listed in the local land registry office. It was exactly the kind of thing that they had been looking for. It was a domestic wizarding home. After another five days of heavy surveillance, which involved assessing the number and nature of the residents, the level of traffic, etc. felt confident they were ready to prepare a team for infiltration. They knew, for example, that the power to teleport was non-operational inside the manor itself. Whatever field scrambled the teleportation power extended throughout the home and to about five metres beyond the front door. They also knew that the home was equipped with the chimney transport system, called floo, and that this would be the residents' primary means of escape. There were two targets in this particular raid. An older woman, named Amelia Bones and her niece, Susan. Their names were merely incidental and had only been secured when a listening device caught part of a conversation that had taken place on the front steps of their home. Nicolai would have preferred to think of his targets as real people. It gave him an extra little thrill, but he had let Umbrella condition him to thinking of them as nonentities, which was useful, as it lent the exercise a greater degree of clinical objectivity.

Tacticians had debated over whether to deploy a nerve toxin through the ventilation system before penetration, or whether to just barge inside and tranquilize them. Nerve toxins were estimated to yield a slightly higher probability of success, but it would also mean damaging the targets. In the end, Wartech executives were too antsy to get moving. They wanted fully functional subjects as quickly as possible, and so Nicolai was ordered to penetrate the interior of the home and extract the targets alive and intact. Having been alerted to the probability that simple tranquilizers may not be effective against magical folk, the lab techs fashioned a tranquilizer cocktail that featured a multitude of different tranquilizers and even an illegal painkiller called etorphine, a far more potent cousin to heroin and morphine.

The team located a number of effective stress points that they could take advantage of. In particular, the parlour, where the chimney transport system was located, had bay windows covering one entire wall. Using glass cutters, two soldiers cut open sniper holes targeting the fireplace. Four soldiers took up posts at key guard points to monitor the situation and provide live surveillance. Two soldiers took to penetrating the cellar and the remaining four, which included Nicolai, stormed the front door.

Once the others were in place, Nicolai began cutting apart the wood of the front door. They had already been made aware that wizards used magical locks, and so the only recourse they would have would be to cut the door apart. Within ten seconds, however, Nicolai received a radio transmission from guard number three, who indicated that lights had come on in the master bedroom. Nicolai swore silently and instructed the three soldiers with him to fall back to covered positions. He himself followed suit, but only after pressing a wad of c-4 into the splintered wood frame. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing. They hadn't expected to run across a silent alarm system. All he knew for certain was that he needed to be able to blow apart the door at a moment's notice and make room for entry, in case his soldiers covering the fireplace failed to do their job. He secured the detonator and pulled back to a fair distance, while transmitting a simple message to his point guards. The message was simple: Lay the mines.

If the targets managed to send a message, they would have to wipe all traces of Umbrella's existence from the premises. And given that their enemies could transport themselves instantaneously, that meant vaporizing themselves in a major firestorm. Nicolai could safely say that he didn't want to die, but he was prepared to nevertheless. He wasn't even really sure why he was prepared to. He didn't really believe in things like patriotism; he loved nothing, not even himself. All that mattered to him was winning and if his own death was necessary for his side to win, then so be it.

Nicolai could make out pinpricks of light through the cracks in the door, and, from what he could tell, the home's occupants were approaching to investigate. That was a bad thing, since he needed to herd them toward the fireplace, where the snipers were waiting. If they had a chance to investigate the wood and the c-4, they might gather together clues about the nature of the intruders, and that would be a very bad thing. Nicolai dared not underestimate them. He detonated the c-4, which cleanly vaporized a chunk of the doorway, blowing wood shrapnel in all directions with a rumbling bang. Hopefully that would ignite their panic response and drive them to seek escape through their chimney system. Nicolai quickly received confirmation from one of his point guards that both targets had been sighted and hit in the parlour. Wasting no time, even as he was given a running commentary of their incapacitation, Nicolai moved into the house, the three soldiers with him fanning out to either side as they covered ground to the parlour.

"Targets down," Carter said.

However, before Nicolai's team infiltrated the designated assault point, there was an explosion of firelight and sound and twinkling glass shattering and spraying the two snipers that had caught Susan and Amelia. What the fuck? Nicolai thought, halting his approach and listening for the sound of intruders.

In the echoing silence, Nicolai heard the distinct sound of silenced gunfire, followed by two words coming in through his earpiece. "All clear," said Carter. "Snipers down."

Nicolai pushed forward into the parlour to find out what had gone wrong. Both the Bones women were lying unconscious. The elder one was still clutching her wand and appeared to have staggered away from the windows unsuccessfully. Nicolai noted she had two darts in her leg. Hopefully that doesn't kill her, he thought, before scanning the remains of the room. The bay windows had been shattered, and the curtains were lit ablaze. He could make out the still forms of his two snipers. They looked as though their bodies had been cut to ribbons. Carter climbed in, pale and trembling through the now broken windows. "Report," Nicolai commanded.

Carter stood to attention and listed off the events as swiftly as he could. "Targets went down. After that, it's hard to tell exactly what happened. We didn't see the little creature that popped up." Carter pointed to a ugly little gremlin with big bat ears. "Some sort of magical guard dog, we expect. It shattered the windows in a fireball. Whatever it did, the glass - it was like it was alive, sir. The glass shards kept slashing at Luke and Genevieve, even after they were dead. It only stopped once I killed it." Carter's shot had put three bullets into the house elf's head, causing its skull to rupture and goo to dribble out of its forehead.

Just then, Nicolai received a short but fierce message from Jackson, one of the other point guards. "Fire in the hull."

A heavy explosion rocked the foundations of the house, easily vaporizing the entire front half and sending deep cracks and fissures through the rest of the structure.

"Jesus fuck," muttered Carter as he regained his balance.

"We've got company," Nicolai said, thinking that the guards must have been caught while in the midst of laying the mines. The situation was growing steadily worse. Luke and Genevieve were confirmed dead, and the five not with Nicolai were all unknowns. They could now here the intermittent burst of automatic fire. Another round of mines were activated, raising a crimson halo of fire in the darkness. All five soldiers could see a body being blown apart, its limbs ablaze.

"Jackson, Ivaylo," Nicolai commanded. "Collect the targets. And move out. Exit through the window and head to the rendezvous point. Keep quiet, but move quickly. The targets somehow contacted reinforcements. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Stealth and speed are your friends now. Go."

Jackson and Ivaylo wordlessly followed their instructions, Jackson taking Amelia's limp form and Ivaylo taking Susan's. They both took a running leap out the window and disappeared into the envelope of darkness beyond. "All right," Nicolai said, turning to the others. "You're going to trail them at a good distance. Make sure they're not being crept up on. Kill silently if you can. Do not underestimate these people, whatever you do. Now go."

They nodded and headed out, leaving Nicolai standing alone in the ruin of the Bones parlour. He contemplated a number of different options at this point. He somehow doubted that they would survive without a major firefight. Even one wizard could dispatch them all if given half a chance. Their ability to retrieve reinforcements within seconds made them only that much more dangerous. Nicolai opened up a transmission to the getaway chopper.

"This is A unit commander reporting, requesting pickup."

"Understood commander. ETA?"

"Five minutes."

"Status?"

"Heavy fire. Come armed. Maximum seven passengers. Seven down."

"Copy, commander. Coming armed. Be there in five."

Nicolai clicked the transmitter, ending communication and jumping out the window to follow the rest of his soldiers. He was dismayed to see the light of battle up ahead. All their weapons were equipped with both sound and visual silencers, so he was particularly disturbed by the number of flashes that were appearing. Magic had particularly odious Technicolor properties, which Nicolai would never abide as an officer. He saw by the light of spellfire a wizard go down in a blaze of bullets, while a pair of others vanished with that eerie popping sound. Nicolai crept forward as quietly as he could, keeping his senses alert for where they would end up. One appeared less than five feet in front of him, and, taking a chance, he rushed the wizard and swiftly and surely plunged a six inch blade right into a fluid sac in the base of his victim's spine. Nicolai followed up by dragging the blade sideways so that it cut the spinal cord, paralyzing the wizard instantly, and sending him collapsing silently to the ground. Nicolai collapsed with him in order to shrink his profile, as he studied the landscape in search of another target. He saw one of his soldiers go down in a blaze of red light.

The repulsion ward was a mere ten metres from the edge of the home, and, normally, it would have been an unassuming distance. But here, in the darkness, with friends and enemies littering the battlefield, it was nothing short of an odyssey. Nicolai managed to creep across as wandlight scoured the area. He was certain now that his quarry was invisible, and that the wandlight was just a feint to draw him out. The tang of magic and blood was in the air.

Nicolai ignored the scream of one of his soldiers, and had to smile. Carter was going down for the cause. Two wizards immediately swarmed down on him and then suddenly disappeared in a column of bleu firelight. The distraction was enough for Nicolai to dash the remaining three metres to the muggle repulsion ward. Even as he took a running leap across the perimeter, the overwhelming vertigo assaulting him in mid-flight as his body careened through the repulsion ward, he felt the sting of a spell graze his shoulder. He collapsed in a heap for a few momentary seconds, fighting down the nausea and dragging himself into a crouch. Somehow, he had missed the discharge of a pair of rockets, that reduced the grounds to smoking craters. The escape chopper had arrived.

"Get down," Terry ordered through his receiver. Nicolai flattened himself to the ground and dragged himself as close to the chopper as he could. He knew what was coming next and almost felt a twinge of pity for anyone caught in the crossfire.

Most people thought that the use of radiation technologies were downright abhorrent in battle, but nothing was too low for Umbrella. On the chopper was mounted what looked like a rail cannon. Except that, instead of discharging high velocity projectiles through induction coils, it discharged high velocity plutonium particulates that aerosolized ten metres from the discharge point. The high concentration of super-heated plutonium rapidly expanded at a rate of ten cubic feet per second, and emitted over a billion becquerels, instantly flash-frying anyone in the vicinity. Nicolai was amazed that Umbrella was prepared to use such a weapon in a public place. The plutonium residue would make the land inhabitable for years, and would carry radiation up to ten miles in any direction, depending on the wind. At least, for the next thirty minutes or so. After that, it would settle into the ground and poison the earth. Some of that could be expected to seep into the water supply and drain out into surrounding areas. Cancer would peak in the area, though it occurred to Nicolai that, if the repulsion ward remained intact, most of the damage would be insulated from muggles. He found that thought somewhat amusing.

After the initial discharge of the rad cannon, a pall settled over the area. Nicolai took care to make sure he was completely covered before standing and exposing himself to the radiation winds. Even with his insulations, he was not assured safety in the highly toxic environment. As such, he raced toward the chopper and hopped on. The others had mostly made it on, including the two targets, Amelia and Susan. The girl had suffered some of the backlash of the radiation and would most likely die assuming her internal magic didn't save her. Nicolai just hoped that the scientists would be able to glean enough information so that they wouldn't suffer the same debacle next time.

No, Nicolai thought firmly, staring at the three remaining soldiers in his company. Next time, we're not going to do this poorly. We'll get what we need from these two and then we'll be prepared. Down below, he could see the light of spellfire and wandlight shining up at them. He desperately wanted to instruct the pilot to fly in and hit them with another pulse from the rad cannon, but he knew they wouldn't comply. They didn't understand what was going on. They probably hadn't even been told that magic was involved. In a perfect world, Nicolai would have gone in and gotten out without a single trace of their presence. The magical authorities would have assumed that wizards and witches had been the culprit, and Umbrella could have enjoyed studying their specimens secure in the knowledge that the night's activities could not have been traced back to them. But now, things were different. The witches new, and with that knowledge would come retribution. Nicolai could see it as clear as day. They had started a war. One which would be fought in secret. One which would be long and brutal and which would test both sides to their utmost limits. And if the muggles were going to win this war, then they were going to have to fold in on themselves. Disappear. And when they returned, they were going to have to be armed with the knowledge of magic and how to counter it.

Voldemort sat in a stiff, high-backed dragonhide chair reading a book. It was dusk outside and the smell of rain permeated the air. There was a fire crackling soberly in the hearth, keeping his private study warm and wet with red light. Contrary to popular belief, Voldemort had undergone relatively few rituals in his lifetime. This is not because he couldn't have, or because he didn't know how to do some of the more obscure or dangerous or beneficial ones. It was simply that he didn't really have need of them. Voldemort was brilliant and powerful as a matter of nature. His mind and body had been forged through adversity. Day after day, year after year, ever since his birth, he learned to grow strong from the ill fortunes that befell him. Currently, he was reading the sixth year DADA curriculum material, though it could be said that only half his attention was devoted to the subject. Why he was reading it at all was a mystery to Pettigrew, the servant that had secured for him the material. So many of his underlings, as Slytherin as they were, did not understand that, no matter how powerful one was, no matter how mean a killing curse or how good a legilimans you were, it meant nothing if you were an ignorant twit. Voldemort was never going to make that mistake again. News of Potter's defense club had reached his ears, and Voldemort was curious. While he didn't honestly believe that Potter could defeat him in a duel, he knew there was more to winning than simply beating your opponents into submission. Dumbledore was forging the next line of soldiers at that school of his, and Potter was undoubtedly throwing his weight around shoring up support. And that meant that, in five or ten years, a whole new wave of adult witches and wizards would be on their way to opposing him. Even if by some miracle, he managed to kill his old transfiguration teacher by the end of the school year, the witches and wizards that he had graduated over the last ten and the next five years worth at least would be in his thrall. Killing the old man would only make him a martyr.

Voldemort turned a page.

The other half of Voldemort's attention was directed at a Daily Prophet clipping from the day before. The headline read: HEAD OF MLE ATTACKED.

The Ministry detailed the kidnapping of Amelia Bones and her niece, Susan. Huffelpuffs, Voldemort remembered. The woman was a rather gifted witch.

What was more interesting was the fact that he was attributed as having led the assault personally, and that he was holding her prisoner. The Prophet was really laying it on thick. YOU-KNOW-WHO TORTURING CHILDREN.

Voldemort snorted. He would have found the article naively amusing, if it weren't for the fact that he had nothing to do with the attack on the Bones residence. Furthermore, from the details reported in the Prophet, he had a pretty good idea that the Ministry also knew that he wasn't behind the attacks. Which meant that they were covering up for somebody. Surely not themselves, Voldemort mused. Who among them would dare attack the head of the MLE? It made no sense.

No, he had decided, the culprits are elsewhere.

It had taken a few hours of pondering before Voldemort finally settled on the only ones who could have possibly done it. At first, he thought the idea preposterous, but, the more he ruminated, the more likely it seemed. Unlike his pureblooded servants, Voldemort did not share the same kind of contempt for muggles. That is to say, he had contempt for them, but it was a different kind of contempt. He hated them because he was jealous. All around him, the magical world was rife with buffoons. He could count the number of intelligent witches and wizards in Britain on one hand. If he had the talent that muggles had at their disposal, trained soldiers, strategicians, you name it, he would probably leave the poor muggle sods alone. But no, that wasn't the case. They were the ones dominating the planet, and they were the ones who lived in an ever-changing, ever-growing society. All the while, the retarded chickens that passed for witches and wizards around him were content to stagnate in their own ignorance. Yes, he wanted to make the wizarding world strong. He envisioned a world where magic pushed harder, went further. Where great things were achieved year after year. Where society today could not even comprehend what society a hundred years from now would look like. And he would do it by strengthening his grip on every aspect of magical Britain and crushing the weak from it, excising the filth and purifying the nimrods from every nook and cranny of the island. Out of the ashes, only those who survived would remain, their minds and bodies and magic forged through hatred and strife. From there, they would learn. They would grow. In a hundred years, under his eternal gaze, they would come to dominate everything in their path. There would be no task they could not do. No creature, no country, no obstacle would stop them.

And now, all that he feared was coming to pass. His worst nightmares were being realized, however obliquely. He expected that, at that very moment, the newly elected acting Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, was raving like a madman at the muggle Prime Minister. And he also knew that it would do no good. Whoever did this, whatever muggle organization had decided to act against wizardkind, it would not be some obtuse government branch. It would be something private. Something sleek and dangerous and well-resourced. It would be something like him. The magical world wasn't capable of taking on the muggle one. They wouldn't even know how to go about it. If the boys over at the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office were any indication, it would take years before they properly understood the full implications of muggle technology. And the muggleborns were a whole other story. Voldemort was willing to bet that if war broke out, at least half of them would return to the muggle side, and they would become a potent ally for the muggles. And that was more of a concern than anything. No, they were too much of a liability and they had to be eradicated before wizards and witches could fully develop themselves. It would be inevitable that, if the wizarding world sought to expand, it would magnify friction between the two worlds. The Magical Reversal Squad could only do so much.

Voldemort was willing to bet that old Amelia and her niece were already being experimented on, tested, probed, prodded and poked. The muggles were already trying to figure out magic, develop anti-magic technologies. And Voldemort had no idea how successful they would be. Could they create a magical plague? He knew magic disrupted electrical equipment. Could muggles turn the tables? Could they disrupt magic? If so, no ward in the world would save them. And without magic, wizards and witches would be sitting ducks. Worse, he had no idea what would happen with the interaction between his soul energy and some bizarre, muggle technology. The entire war would be fought in laboratories, with constant experimentation and innovation. And if left long enough, the muggles would eventually find a way.

Voldemort closed his copy of Dealing with the Dark: An Advanced Guide to Evil, and stared out his window, the firelight making his red eyes shine. "Nagini," he hissed, still staring out the window.

"Yes, my lord," she responded.

"I have a task for you."

"Anything, my lord."

"Go to the Bones residence. Investigate. Find out anything you can about the ones who attacked the Bones."

"As you command." Nagini waited a second to see if her master would say anything more before turning away and slithering out the door.

Soon, Voldemort thought. Soon, we shall test the might of magic against the might of muggles.


	3. Bound for the USA

Chapter Three

Bound for the USA

Harry Potter glanced down at the piece of parchment that Kingsley had given him less than one week ago. On it was scrawled in Kingsley's surprisingly tidy and artful script the address for a particular organization that had ties to some sort of international defense association dedicated to fighting the dark forces. Curiously enough, the group consisted of muggles, which Kingsley had assured him was a good thing, since it meant that Albus would have had little contact with them. As such, Harry would not have to worry about counteracting the old man's influence.

Still, Harry was dubious as to the effectiveness of a group of muggles. How could they go about fighting dark creatures like vampires and demons and dark wizards? They wouldn't have a chance. Shaking his doubts aside for the moment, Harry marshalled his Gryffindor courage and crossed the dreary London street as the drizzling rain slowly transformed into a downpour. Stupid English weather, he thought, absently casting the Impervious charm on himself to ward off the rain.

The interior of the building was completely muggle, and was decked out with overhanging lights, a reception desk with a prim and proper young muggle woman manning the counter, business-style pen in one hand, telephone receiver in the other. There were lifts off to the left, and a lobby area to the right. All the exterior walls on the first floor seemed to be made of glass, which meant that the entire floor was bathed in the diffuse morning light of the cloudy day.

inNot bothering with the reception desk, and not really being sure what warranted such a thing in what Harry thought to be a standard office building, Harry simply continued on to the lifts, where he took one to the top floor.

After five tell-tale pings, each one signalling the passage of another floor for the benefit of the blind and visually impaired, the lift came to a stop. Doors opened and Harry stepped into a large front room that was dimly lit with soft Persian carpeting, the faint music of Puccini's Turandot, wafting through speakers embedded in the walls. Harry went to what was yet another reception desk, this time occupied by another young lady.

"Er, hi," Harry said.

"Good afternoon, how may I help you today?" responded the girl in a cultured accent.

"I'm here to talk to a fellow by the name of Giles. Rupert Giles." Harry had a sudden feeling of dread that there was in fact no Rupert Giles and that, somewhere along the way, he had been taken for a sucker.

"Just one minute," she responded pleasantly, consulting some sort of scheduler. "May I ask your name?"

"It's Harry. Harry Potter."

"Right then, you're a little early, Mr. Potter, but no matter. I believe Mr. Giles is available to speak to you shortly." The receptionist then paged the fellow known as Rupert Giles. "Please have a seat."

Harry obliged and soon found himself waiting for the muggle that would send him off on an adventure of a lifetime. Or so he hoped.

"Mr. Potter?" came yet another cultured British voice from somewhere overhead. Harry snapped his head up and found himself looking into the wizened grey eyes of a gangly looking male who seemed to have aged in the same way that Remus Lupin had aged: in the throes of poverty and under a great deal of stress.

"Hello, Mr. Giles," Harry said as formally as he could, standing up and shaking the man's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"No, no, none of that sir business," he said, already walking down toward his office, Harry falling into step next to him. "I'm old enough as it is, I say. No need to make me feel any older."

"Sorry, sir," Harry replied instantly.

Giles just smiled at him. Once inside his office, they both took a seat and Giles began, "So what can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath. This was it - the moment of truth. "I'm here because I am searching for an opportunity to contribute to the fight against the dark forces. My mentor suggested that your organization - the Watcher's Council - might be able to provide such an opportunity."

"Hmm, interesting," replied Giles. "Two questions come to mind. Why are you interested in committing yourself to fighting the dark forces, and what do you feel you can contribute to the endeavour?"

"Er, well, I'm a wizard," Harry supplied. "I've been trained in combat magic and stealth. As well, I have experience fighting dark wizards and dark creatures." Harry inwardly smiled at the thought of putting the phrase 'killed a basilisk' on his resume. Any job where that was a credit was a job worth having, he decided.

"A wizard?" Giles repeated.

"Well, yes," Harry said. "A wizard."

"Tell me about that."

"Er, what would you like to know?" Harry asked, not entirely sure where to begin.

"What kind of magic have you performed?" Giles asked, narrowing his question.

"What kind of magic?" Harry echoed, trying to puzzle out what exactly this Giles character was looking for. Did he want to hear about transfiguration? Charms? Defense spells? Harry decided to open with the big stuff. "Well, I've learned a number of auror caliber defense spells, like disillusionment, obliviation, etc. I am competent with my transfiguration and I excel in charms and defensive magic. You know, shields, curses, the such."

"I see," Giles said, stroking his chin thoughtfully and leaning back in his chair. However, Harry got the distinct impression that Giles really wasn't seeing at all, and Harry began to wonder if maybe these people had never actually heard of wizards before. Maybe they were just a bunch of muggle clods running around doing the best they could with muggle technology. Maybe they knew nothing about magic. Oh crap, he thought, a cold fear creeping up his spine. Now I can add violating the international wizarding secrecy statute to my list of offences. But before he could go down that road very far, he reminded himself he was casting the Imperius curse on humans without a license, and that warranted an automatic life sentence in Azkaban. Secrecy statutes paled somewhat in comparison.

"What deities have you invoked?" Giles asked, deciding to narrow his interrogation even further.

However, Harry clearly didn't understand the question. "Deities?" he once again echoed, only this time with even more mystification.

"Well, yes, deities, Mr. Potter. Isn't that how you go about casting magic? By drawing on the energy of mystical beings?"

"Er, no, not really," Harry said lamely. He was starting to realize that this meeting was a colossal bust. I'm going to kill Kingsley for this, he thought irritably. "Sir, I think that perhaps I might have wasted your time. I think maybe I'll just be going on my way. I'm terribly sorry." Harry stood and drew his holly and phoenix feather wand. "Again I'm terribly sorry. Clearly, I was mistaken as to the nature of this organization. I'm sure you'll understand that I simply can't permit you to have knowledge of this conversation." Why am I telling him this? Harry wondered. Christ, it's not like he's going to remember it.

"Mr. Potter," Giles began to say.

"Obliv-" Harry was cut off by a deep tingling sensation that was working its way through his body. What the hell? he thought, never before having experienced the effect. Do they have some sort of ward set up? While, he couldn't claim to have understood the feeling that was working through him, he did understand on some visceral level that it was warning him about imminent danger, and as such, it put him on maximum alert.

In the next instant, he saw the door crash open and he felt rather than saw a dark being of immense power. Something tainted. Instinctively and wordlessly, he erected a protection shield made of shimmering blue light and he did so not a nanosecond too soon, for immediately he felt an incredible force impacting with his shield. To his surprise, that force was a roundhouse kick ending in an Adidas cross-trainer and had enough force to punch through his shield and impact on his chest, causing him to stagger back, thankful that the immensity of that blow had been cushioned by the shield. Otherwise, his internal organs would have been sprayed out the back of his torso and all over Giles copy of Monet's Nympheas. As such, Harry was still very much alive and able to fight. The magical backlash of the shield that would have downed a competent auror only served to stun the dark being momentarily. Harry had a moment to comprehend that the "dark being" was in fact a girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties and that she had long black hair and Snape-like foreboding black eyes that promised certain doom for any poor soul that crossed her path. In this case, that poor soul being Harry. All the while, that strange tingling sensation that he could not place was going haywire and telling him in no uncertain terms to flee.

Not that Harry was going to flee. He had a middle-aged muggle to protect, after all.

"Faith!" Harry heard Giles say, not that he paid any attention to it. If the old man wanted to pray at a time like this, well, more power to him. The girl was already sending a dagger whistling through the air at high velocity at Harry's neck, to which Harry responded by apparating with an uncharacteristically loud pop, only to reform behind her, where he sent a stunner her way. Already, she had whirled around, as if expecting him to have apparated, which, he knew, was rather silly. Still, she was not quite fast enough for Harry's Quidditch and war and training honed reflexes, which managed to place a powerful stunner right in her mid-section, causing her to stagger and fall over backwards. Phew, he thought, taking a breath. "Mr. Giles, are you okay?" he asked, turning to the muggle, who was eyeing him speculatively.

However, before Harry could receive a response, he felt his legs pulled out from under him, and was only barely able to glimpse the girl getting to her feet, having downed her opponent with a sweep-kick. Harry tried to roll out of the way of her incoming form, but it was simply not possible for him to move with the unnatural speed and power and grace of the girl before him, and, as such, he found himself pinned and beaten before he could blink an eye. Thankfully though, her initial plan to kill him had apparently been abandoned since she seemed content to simply keep him pinned, though she was clearly not averse to inflicting pain, as she made sure his body was contorted in a rather awkward angle.

"Faith, let him go," Giles said tiredly, absently wiping his glasses and putting them back on his head.

"He attacked you," Faith responded, not breaking eye contact with her prey.

"Ger off!" Harry wheezed. "You're breaking my ribcage!"

"And I care because?" Faith asked, smugness evident in her tone.

Harry continued to struggle futilely against his captor, desperately wishing he hadn't dropped his wand and wondering why it was that, despite his fiercest efforts, he couldn't managed to make her arms budge even a little bit. Finally, he gave up and went limp in her arms. "You've got superstrength," he concluded dully.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Faith responded and, in one fluid motion, lifted herself to a standing position and releasing Harry. He rolled over onto his stomach and let out an audible groan. Before he could get up though, he felt her foot come down on his back and plant him firmly against the ground. "Now, tell me what you were going to do to Giles," she commanded in an imperious tone.

You're so busted, he thought grimly. You may as well tell them everything.

However, Harry decided not to tell them everything, for the simple reason that he was hands down the most stubborn human on the planet. Besides, he had a plan brewing. Now able to see that his wand was just a few feet from him, and remembering that he had been able to cast spells through it from a distance, Harry tried to open up his magic and cause something to happen. Unlike last time, however, he wanted something a little more amazing than a bit of light. Aware that even if he could pull off a powerful stunner, it wouldn't work, on her, not that it was aimed in the correct direction anyway. Most likely, any spell he managed to cast would be aimed in his direction. In a flash of inspiration, he willed the wand to conjure a creature. A very particular one. "Serpento sortia," he wheezed, gritting his teeth as Faith pressed down hard on his back.

When he looked out of the corner of his eye, he saw that, in fact, a one foot long garden snake had emerged. Crap, he lamented, a bloody garden snake. How lame is that? Hissing, he instructed the snake to sit tight while he forced a second spell through the wand - this time, an Engorgement charm. Sure enough, the garden snake expanded to three feet in length, and, despite not being poisonous, was much more daunting.

"Stop her," he hissed.

Being significantly larger, the snake drew the attention of both Faith and Giles, who were stunned by the appearance of the creature where before there had been none.

"What the-?" Faith asked as the snake lunged for her.

"Aah!" she cried out, deftly evading the lunge and whirling around on the creature while simultaneously drawing a spring-loaded switchblade. The snake never had a chance.

However, the momentary distraction was enough for Harry, who had crawled to his wand and aimed the only thing he could think of that would be a surefire solution to his problem. Briefly he sent a thank you to Kingsley for having made him practice this particular spell. Wingardiem leviosa!" he cried, throwing wordless casting to the wind in his desperation. Faith had no room to dodge and instead got lifted into the air to her shock.

"Hah!" he said triumphantly. "BOOYAH, BEE-ATCH!"

"Let me down!" she exclaimed, struggling with all her might against the spell.

"I don't think so, supergirl," he said tauntingly, enjoying his moment of superiority while the bruises on his arms and back were still fresh. He was careful not to move her too close to any object that she might have been able to pick up and use as a projectile. Deftly, he moved her up to the ceiling where he held her for a full second before realizing his mistake. Faith, having been a professional hunter and not some newbie, had learned to use everything in her environment, even herself. She swiftly oriented herself so that her feet were planted against the ceiling and then, deploying her superior strength, she propelled herself in Harry's direction at high speed. Too astonished to move, Harry was impacted by two flying fists right in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and flattening him to the ground.

"ENOUGH!" Giles barked. "Faith! Get off him, right this instant!"

"Do I have to?" she whined, already disentangling herself and smirking at Harry, who was still trying to regain his senses.

"Yes," Giles replied, already relaxing as he saw that neither Faith nor Harry had been seriously injured.

Harry picked himself off the floor and flopped into the chair farthest from where Faith stood leaning against the wall. He eyed her suspiciously for a moment before focusing his attention on Giles.

"So tell me," Giles said in a serious tone. "What was it that you had been planning to do to me?"

That's a good question, Harry thought. What had he been planning to do to the old man? It seemed so far away with his head still fuzzy from being knocked about. Eventually it came to him. Obliviation. Deciding that the jig was up and not wanting to incur muscleheads wrath, he decided to just come clean. "It was a memory charm," Harry confessed.

"A memory charm?" Giles repeated, prompting Harry to continue.

"Yeah, well, it started to look pretty clear that you'd no clue what I was talking about. I mean, really. Invoking deities? How stupid does that sound? Why don't we all just run around naked praying for fire from the Sun God or some other such rubbish. Clearly you've no clue what it means to be a wizard or a witch. Besides, I'd get in some serious trouble if I just let a muggle know about us. There's laws prohibiting magical folk from telling muggles about ourselves."

"Hmm," Giles said, considering Harry's words. "I can't begin to tell you how many questions your words have invoked, though I also understand you would be terribly hesitant to continue discussing this. You are correct that I know nothing about what you speak, nor do I understand how it is that you did half of the things you've just shown you're capable of doing. Certainly I've seldom ever seen it done with such ease..." Giles trailed off, lost in a memory of a certain spunky witch gone postal. Shaking his head and returning to the issue at hand, he went on, "Nonetheless, I have seen people levitate one another before, as well as use magic to call the elements, conjure objects, inflict grievous bodily harm, so on and so forth. It seems to me that there are two distinct vehicles for magic that are being utilized. Despite all this, I can hardly condone the use of these memory charms, Mr. Potter. It is something of an insult, actually, since you have come here looking for support from me and this organization."

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish. "Yes, sir. It's just that non-magic folk are really not supposed to know about us. Surely you must understand. If you truly do fight vampires and other dark creatures, then you must know the dangers involved with the general public becoming aware of their existence."

Giles nodded. "I do concede that." He then sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it's just that I have never been on the receiving end of that sort of treatment."

Harry smiled. "Nor have I, but I imagine it's rather unpleasant."

Giles smiled wanly. "Indeed, I can now testify that it is."

"And you?" Harry asked, turning to the dark haired menace. "What's your story?"

"Just passing through, squirt," she said nonchalantly.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Who're you calling a squirt?"

"If the shoe fits." Faith made a show of looking at her nails.

"Settle down, you two," Giles said, cutting off the escalating argument.

Harry turned his attention back to Giles. "So, if you really do fight dark creatures, how do you go about doing so? Do you have witches and wizards? Is she one of them?" Harry pointed to Faith.

"No," Giles said, shaking his head. "Faith here has very special powers. She is what we call a slayer."

"A slayer?" Harry repeated, tasting the word. "Sounds... nice."

Giles grinned. "Faith here, in particular, is one of a kind."

That was the beginning of the story on how it came to be that Harry would end up boarding an airplane bound for the U.S. of A. With Faith at his side, no less.

No Silencing or Imperturbable charm in the world had the power to block out Mrs. Weasley's shouts.

"YOU WHAT!"

Not ten minutes ago, Ron and Hermione had been sitting down to a nice cup of tea at the kitchen in Grimmauld Place. Everything over the summer for the pair of them had been coming along rather smoothly, all things considered. Hermione had spent the first part of her vacation on a trip to Greece, where she learned about the vast and rich history of the classical world, not to mention its magical counterpart. Coming back revitalized and with a healthy tan and with not a single scrap of evidence that she had been severely injured near the end of June, she swiftly became aware of the unusual laxity in Harry's correspondence, which had been stored on her bedroom window sill in a charmed little drop-off pouch.

Dear Hermione,

it's great that you're going on a vacation. I hope you have a wonderful time and learn many great things about the Greeks. Be sure to send me a postcard.

Harry

And that had been all. One measly note. Her first response had been to feel indignant at the dearth of material he had supplied her with. Surely he could have found something worthwhile to write about, even if it were simply his own feelings. During the previous summer, Harry's letters had possessed a kind of desperate, yearning quality that was distinctly lacking now. She supposed Sirius's death must have hit him rather hard. Still, Harry was the type to bounce back and not give up. She had shrugged it off at the time, but, after consenting to an invite to return to Grimmauld place and having consulted with her other best friend, Ronald Weasley, she couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Harry's letters to Ron had been completely bland and uninteresting, even more so than usual. Harry often took to writing about his horrid relatives, but this summer, he hadn't mentioned them a single time. Ron, as always had been clueless, more so after Hermione had pointed out the few subtle clues. Harry had taken care to delay his responses just long enough so that people wouldn't get worried, but also as though he had wanted to minimize his relationship with them. That was rather odd in and of itself, because he had always been prompt about responding, as though he couldn't get enough of his correspondence.

Not long after, Hermione dared to try phoning him in an attempt to ferret out the problem. Was he hurting for some motherly love? Did he need companionship? Had her best friend in the world given up on life without the aid of his two best friends to be there to support him in his greatest time of need? Well, Hermione Granger, amateur detective, was on the case.

"Hello?" Hermione asked in her most polite tone.

The overly saccharine voice on the other end of the telephone instantly put Hermione on edge. "Hello?"

"Er, yes, may I please speak to Harry Potter? I'm a friend of his from school."

Click.

It took Hermione Granger, smartest witch of the age, a full minute to comprehend that the Dursley on the other end of the line had hung up on her. "Well, I never," she started, glaring at the receiver in her hand as though she could melt it into a puddle of plastic goo with simply her eyes. "Of all the nerve." Hermione shook her head and tried again.

Ring, ring.

"Hello, listen, I want to talk to Harry Potter, you old hag, and there's no force on-"

Click.

"ARRGHH!" Hermione slammed the receiver on the cradle in a fit of rage before, not a moment later, snatching it back up and dialing once more.

And so it rang and rang and rang still more. But Hermione did not stop. She merely persisted on continuing to phone. Every time the answering machine came to life, she would simply hang up and drop another quarter in the payphone and try again. On the four hundredth ring, Mrs. Petunia Dursley finally answered.

"What is it?" she asked in a weary tone.

"Where's Harry?" Hermione demanded.

A pause. And then in an even wearier tone, "He's not here."

As bright as she was, Hermione could not manage to grab this concept. "Not here? What does that mean?"

Another pause. "It means he's not here."

""Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"When will he be back, then?" Stupid muggles, Hermione thought scathingly. What horrible people the Dursleys are.

"I don't think he's coming back at all, actually. He's taken all his things and left with that tall foreign-looking queer fellow with the gold earring. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my normal life."

And once more, Petunia Dursley dropped the receiver, letting a click travel through the phone line and vibrate against Hermione's cochlea. Hermione dropped the receiver so that it hung limply from the payphone and, in a daze, she wandered back to Grimmauld Place. Foreign-looking queer fellow, she mused, translating Petunia's words from Toryism to liberalism. It could only mean one thing. Kingsley Shacklebolt.

From there, it should be fairly easy to see how we got to the present.

"YOU WHAT!"

Down below, in Grimmauld Place's kitchen, Kingsley was in the process of being hauled up onto the red carpet.

"Where d'you suppose he took Harry?" Ron asked, apparently completely unable to fathom where Harry could have gone. "You suppose he's a Death Eater?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't." She then proceeded to chew on her lower lip as she contemplated. "Harry's stuff was taken as well. I imagine he left voluntarily."

"Maybe he's been moved to some sort of a safehouse," Ron suggested dubiously.

"I don't think that even you believe that, Ron. Harry would have been brought here, if anywhere, and certainly Mrs. Weasley would have known about it. Or at least Dumbledore, who's apparently coming to interrogate Mr. Shacklebolt personally. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't take time out of his schedule to do that if Mr. Shacklebolt had been working under his orders all along."

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered before noticeably perking up. "Care to have a game of chess?"

Hermione sighed. She supposed she couldn't ask for anything more from her other best friend. Resigned to worrying about Harry on her own time, she acquiesced. "Sure, what the hell. Got nothing else to do."

Meanwhile, downstairs, Molly, Moody, and Remus were all warily eyeing the auror that had grown close to Harry over the last six weeks. Remus in particular was rather agitated and appeared to be itching to reach over the kitchen table and start strangling Kingsley until he confessed to being a Death Eater. Kingsley, on the other hand, merely sat in his usually formal position, quietly sipping on tea in a manner that could only be described as delicate. He chose not to respond at all to Molly's comments and instead stared toward infinity, letting his mind and his vision go blank, all the while one hand close enough to his wand that he could snatch it up in a flash and raise a shield and a curse. Inwardly, he smiled at the memory of how quickly Harry had learned to double-cast. It was a critical skill in combat where time was so precious, and Harry had learned it with hardly any effort at all. Kingsley had no doubt the boy would go on to triple-cast and possibly even quadruple-cast, as rare as that was. Especially when coupled with double-arcing. To date, only Albus Dumbledore could quadruple-cast while double-arcing, effectively launching eight spells nearly simultaneously. Kingsley wondered if Harry would be the next wizard to achieve that level of magical and mental control. All of Snape's snide comments over the years at the various meetings proved over the last six weeks to be completely baseless, as Harry showed a preternatural mental control. Almost as though he were simply re-acquainting himself with forgotten memories as opposed to mapping uncharted territory.

Then again, Kingsley had no clue that Harry had been prophesied to be the Dark Lord's equal, and that he would come to be much, much more.

The fireplace roared to life momentarily, the burgeoning fire flashing green and then purple before settling back down to green again. Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the flames, his signature twinkle gone as he surveyed the four occupants of the kitchen.

"Let us move straight to business," he said, drawing out his wand and conjuring a pot of tea and some biscuits. The gesture seemed somewhat at odds with the idea that they were supposed to be engaging in a quasi-interrogation. Dumbledore took a seat and, with a serious expression, looked intently at Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Please, Kingsley, explain everything you know about Harry's whereabouts, including any preamble that you feel would aid us in understanding Harry's behaviour, knowledge, attitudes, etc. I imagine there's more to this story than a simple retrieval."

Damn, Kingsley thought, double-checking his occlumancy shields. Though they were meager, they were enough to ensure that he would know if an intrusion were taking place. Still, nothing was ever certain with Albus Dumbledore. He always seemed to know things he shouldn't, and it was one of the reasons why so many people trusted him. Apart from the fact that he was insanely powerful, of course.

"Of course, Albus, I will tell you as much as I can. I should let it be known, however, that I made a pledge to young Mr. Potter, and I fully intend to keep it. Therefore, there will be gaps in my story which I will not be able to fill in for you," he responded in his deceptively calm, 'I'm a bad-ass auror and you better watch it' tone.

Albus merely nodded and made a staying gesture to Remus, who had been about to speak.

Kingsley went on, "Several weeks ago, during my shift guarding Mr. Potter, I observed him leaving his aunt and uncle's home. I followed him to the end of the street, having fully expected him to head to the Little Whinging park, which he is known to commonly do on nice days. However, that is not what happened. He surprised me by drawing his wand and summoning the Knight Bus. Having little time to react and not having any effective means of detaining him, I simply made my way onto the bus so that I could continue in my role as guardian. I elected to strip off my invisibility cloak and speak to Mr. Potter. if he were attempting to evade me, I would have rather simply known about it than try to tail him at every turn. While I doubt he could have outmaneuvered me, I did not think it would be conducive to a good working relationship if we were hostile to one another. In particular, if we met resistance from death eaters, I would most likely not be in a position to defend him, as I would be busy with my attention focused on my target."

Albus nodded, his calmness never wavering. Remus and Moody and Molly, however, appeared to be growing rather impatient. Kingsley just tried to ignore them.

"I took a seat next to Mr. Potter and asked him a few simple questions in the hopes of gauging his level of cooperativeness, emotionality, etc. He surprised me by replying in a very neutral, matter of fact way. His words, surprisingly enough, were very thoughtful, and they inspired me to question certain things."

"Like?" Remus asked quickly, not wanting to skip over this. He himself, had had his own doubts in the past and was now hoping for some confirmation. "I don't think it's entirely necessary to go into that," Kingsley replied evenly. "Suffice it to say, I conceded to Mr. Potter's request not to get in the way of his endeavours. I even went so far as to make suggestions as to the kinds of things he should focus his attention on."

"What was he planning to do?" Albus asked.

Kingsley directed his gaze to Albus and said two simple words, "He studied."

Remus furrowed his brow in contemplation as he tried to figure out what it was that Harry felt he needed to study. Molly simply looked blank, as though she couldn't comprehend the statement, and Moody was appraising Kingsley. Albus looked thoughtful in his barney old grandfather sort of way.

"What was he studying?" Remus finally asked.

Kingsley nodded to himself, as though he had struggled to find an appropriate answer, before saying, "He didn't want to have minders anymore. He wanted to learn enough that he could go out on his own. He felt that others were major targets in the war, and they were not relegated to having guards following them. He cited you, Albus, as an example."

Albus chuckled. "True, true." By now, Albus had already gathered the pieces together and had formed a fairly strong picture of where the story was heading. Remus seemed to be on the same track and Moody was nodding in approval, clearly satisfied that the boy was learning combat magic. Moody probed, by asking, "What exactly was he learning? What did he think would be a good repertoire of spells to make himself independent?"

Kingsley took a deep breath. This was going to be one of the two rough patches in his explanations. He had been contemplating whether to outright lie or to tell the truth in its entirety. He decided on a compromise. "I informed him of a list of standard items that would be useful to have proficiency in. Beyond that, it was his responsibility to understand how each one would play a role in his survival. Much of it was related to stealth. I felt that, for Harry's purposes, spells designed to create heavy assaults on his opponents were irrelevant to his circumstances. I believe he concurred. He never once asked me about it. Instead, I pointed him to certain magical strategies that would allow him to make the most creative use out of his surroundings, often for defense, but which also could be used for creative offensive strategies."

"Yes, but what did you teach him?"

"I didn't teach him anything, Alastor. I simply informed him of what things were out there. I included occlumancy, legilimancy, illusionment, disillusionment, magical detection, wandless magic. I also told him he should have a strong grip on certain key transfigurations and charms. He should be able to comfortably transfigure wood to steel, reshape blunt objects into sharp ones. Cause growths on the surfaces of objects, etc. I also advised him that the Levitation charm would be particularly useful, and that he should seek to strengthening his magical output. I also told him to pay closer attention to spells that manipulate earth, air, fire and water. In almost any given situation, these elements will be around in abundance and can be manipulated to serve a variety of needs. I told him to study them and to think up different ways of using the elements."

Moody was nodding in approval.

"Anything else?" Dumbledore pressed.

"I told him to look into his animagus form."

"BUT WHY?" Molly burst out, clearly unable to restrain herself. "HE'S JUST A BOY! A YOUNG, NAIVE, INNOCENT LITTLE TODDLER WHO NEEDS CONSTANT CODDLING AND MOTHERLY AFFECTION! AND FOOD! LOTS OF FOOD! THE POOR BOY IS SO MALNOURISHED WITH THOSE RELATIVES OF HIS! FOOD WILL SOLVE ALL HIS PROBLEMS! CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?"

Kingsley briefly considered avada kedavraing her right there on the spot, but managed to restrain himself. He merely raised an eyebrow in Albus Dumbledore's direction, silently asking, Why is that woman here?

Dumbledore shrugged and responded with an expression that said, You try and keep her out next time. It was clear to everyone in the world except Molly herself that she had a very important role in the world, but that role clearly did not involve her presence at a strategy session for a vigilante group, even if that strategy session happened to take place in a kitchen.

Kingsley continued as though she had never spoken, "Harry had the presence of mind to ask me to give him a run-down of what kinds of tactics he can expect his enemies to use. I told him that, in addition to what I already suggested, the Obliviation charm and the Imperius curse were both prime candidates. I would not be surprised if he learned them."

At this proclamation, Albus remained passive, while Remus jerked visibly as if spasming. Moody just grinned an evil, toothy sort of grin while Molly simply looked resigned.

"I do not need to tell you, Kingsley, that the number of things you have described would take a competent magical individual at least a year of dedicated study to become proficient in. How could he have possibly learned disillusionment? Or at least, to such a degree as to make it useful? Albus asked.

Moody, however, cut in with another question, "How'd he get the trackers off his wand?"

Kingsley smiled and said with perfect sincerity, "I have no clue. Just as I have no clue how he fixed his vision."

"Fixed his vision?" Remus asked. "You mean his near-sightedness?"

Kingsley nodded. "I said it before, and I will say it again. I did not teach that boy anything. I simply told him what is important for stealth magic and combat magic."

"Did you tell him about the Constriction curse?" Moody asked.

Kingsley nodded yet again.

"Good."

"Surely you must have at least tested him?" Albus said carefully.

"I did," Kingsley conceded. "And, truth be told, I did assist him a little bit with learning about his magical output. I don't think he really understood the concept at first."

"Few do," Albus agreed. "Mr. Potter had never seen the need for theory."

Kingsley shook his head. "It appears he develops a quick learning curve when he foresees practical uses for the magic he is taught. Transfiguring teacups into hamsters is useless, so he puts in only enough effort to pass. Conjuring a silver shield, on the other hand, he learns with amazing speed, because he intuitively understands how useful it can be. He told me he saw the Dark Lord use such a conjuration to block one of your spells."

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, he did. Interesting. Your explanation accords with what we know of Mr. Potter. It appears that our curriculum may not have exactly suited his needs."

"What's the boy's magical output?" Moody asked.

"Base 4," Kingsley replied. "His defense spells are naturally higher, tending to be around the 5 mark."

"That's solid," Moody said, approving.

"Yes, it is."

"That still does not bring us to the current situation," Albus said, gently prodding the discussion back to the original point."

"No, it doesn't," Kingsley agreed, and, then, taking another sip of his tea to wet his throat, he continued. "During one of our last conversations, I told him that I would not be able to test him any further. He has demonstrated proficiency in all the areas that I know. He also took it upon himself to learn apparation and portkeys."

"But that's illegal!" Molly cried out.

Kingsley just looked at her with a withering glare. "Because the rest of it isn't?"

"Please, Kingsley, continue."

"All right, Albus. As I was saying, there's not much left I could teach him. At least, in terms of new areas of magic. Certainly, he could improve his knowledge of what he has already learned in order to achieve true mastery. I'm also sure that experience has allowed me to develop a few tricks. I doubt Harry has thought to use the Obliviation charm in a duel, for example. At any rate, I advised him that perfecting his skills would come with practice, and that his time would better be spent delving into new areas, such as warding, enchanting, complex transfiguration, developing his animagus form, etc. I'm sure he could learn a lot in the area of wandless magic as well, judging from what I had already seen. I also suggested combat healing."

"Did you suggest any instructors?" Albus asked.

Kingsley shook his head. "No. The only ones I can think of are at Hogwarts, and Harry expressed his concerns over their teaching methods. No, he wanted something else. He wanted to become an expert in these fields as they related to defense, not for general purposes."

"I imagine Bill Weasley could do a lot for him in the area of wards," Molly offered tentatively, having decided to give in.

"That is true, but Harry latched onto a different track by this point. He asked me if he would be able to take an active role in the fight against the Dark Lord. To become a member of the front line."

"And you said?" Albus prompted.

"I had no answer for him," Kingsley replied. "It's not really my decision. I told him as much." At this point, Kingsley paused. Here they were coming to the conclusion of the story, and he knew none of them were going to like it. It was one thing to teach him illegal magic. At least he was still stuck like a mushroom in one place. He was still protected by the innumerable wards, still under watch, still controllable. Now, having gone AWOL, he had eluded their grip entirely. Finally, Kingsley continued. "I suggested that there were other organizations that fight dark forces. I suggested he look into it."

"Exactly which organizations did you refer him to?" Albus inquired politely, though there was an undercurrent of disapproval.

This is one of those few points in the conversation where Kingsley lied. "I did not refer him anywhere. Whatever organizations he found out about he did so completely on his own."

"And where exactly would he do that?" Remus asked.

"Where he did everything else, I imagine," Kingsley replied evenly. "In Knockturn Alley."

With that proclamation, a dead silence fell over the interrogators. Knockturn Alley was well known to be a dark arts hub. A place where aurors who went in, did not come out.

"Knockturn Alley?" Albus asked in a quiet, deadly voice.

Kingsley simply nodded. "I have no proof, of course. He told me he learned of these things in Diagon Alley, but I have trouble believing he could truly find out about legilimancy from a place that is so... safe. And if he learned Obliviation and the Imperius, he would definitely have had to have gone to Knockturn." Seeing the disbelieving faces and the frowns, Kingsley was thankful he disavowed knowledge of Harry's activities in Knockturn. In particular, Kingsley knew the boy had been taking a number of illegal potions to do some of the things he had done. Such as the animagus revealing potion. Even worse, Kingsley had suspected that Harry had used the rage potion to develop his wandless abilities. Kingsley also knew that Albus knew these things also. It was just a matter of figuring out what Kingsley's hand in it all had been.

"Very well," Albus said finally, leaning back in his chair and appraising the Order member before him. "I believe that is all. Thank you very much, Kingsley. I'm sorry to have troubled you like this, though I am certain you knew we would have to discuss the matter when you took an active role in assisting Harry."

Kingsley nodded. "Of course, I understand."

"It is not my business to meddle in people's affairs or to use my position as leader of the Order to hand out punishments. I must say I am disappointed in you, however. Assigning a guard to keep watch over Harry is not a right that Mr. Potter has. it is a courtesy that we extend to him in exchange for his prospective role in the war. I can only assume that he told you key things about the war that persuaded you to assist him. I am concerned with some of the activities he has engaged in, but I do take heart that you have surely trained him well. I am confident he will return to us eventually. While he is not an Order member, nor do any of us have guardian ship over him, he does bear a certain responsibility to some of us. To Molly and the rest of the Weasleys, as they are his friends. To us, for having aided in his protection in the past, despite the formidable efforts that have been made against him. Also, you made an oath to the Order. I do not expect you to violate your moral or ethical code for what I or any other Order member thinks is correct. I do, however, expect you to trust us enough to not withhold information such as this. I should think that having fought together and protected one another would give you a sense strong enough to not be swayed by the words of a sixteen year old boy. An important boy, no doubt, but just a boy nevertheless."

Kingsley nodded. "You're right, of course. I did not see where his training would lead him. However, even I could sense Mr. Potter's alienation. I did not think it would do for him to feel betrayed. Some things need to be done on their own. As such, it was my conscience that instructed me to withhold the information from you. That is, until Harry gave me tacit permission to disclose it. I suspect that gaining his trust has been more important than anything this last six weeks. It does not seem as though he has anyone he can go to. He did not have me, really. I just happened to be convenient at the time."

Kingsley's words about Harry having been alienated seemed to strike a chord within Dumbledore, for the sternness melted away and was replaced with a look of defeat. And so, Dumbledore simply nodded. "Understood."

Deciding that the inquiry had pretty much come to an end and not wanting to be subjected to the scrutinizing gazes of the four very different people arrayed before him, Kingsley stood and took his leave through the fireplace.

"You aren't really planning to simply leave Harry be, are you Albus?" Molly asked, her voice subdued as she was still trying to process everything that she had heard. Moody seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of leaving Harry to fend for himself while Remus looked strained. Albus shook his head. "I am not Harry's guardian. As much as I or you or Remus here might care for him, he has the right to do what he wishes. If I understand Kingsley correctly, Harry has gone and broken so many wizarding laws that no force on the planet could keep him from being incarcerated for life, or possibly even executed outright. I can't honestly say."

"What is that boy thinking?" Molly said exasperated, her typical fervor working its way back into her voice.

Dumbledore just looked incredibly sad.

Remus, on the other hand, had taken to watching Albus's demeanor and piped in by saying, "This has to do with something other than Sirius's death, doesn't it, Albus? There's something else going on here."

Dumbledore neither rejected nor affirmed the assertion, which was an affirmation in and of itself.

"I fear I have made yet another error," Dumbledore sighed. "I can do nothing right by Harry James Potter, it seems."

Remus sat in contemplation, trying to figure out what sort of motivation could drive Harry to this sort of behaviour. "It's almost as though he has a death wish. As though he no longer sees death as a cost."

This comment only seemed to deepen Dumbledore's sorrow, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the others.

"Albus?" Moody asked tentatively. "This must be related to the reason why we're all jumping through hoops for the boy, isn't it?"

Strangely enough, it was Molly who seemed to piece it together. She gasped with dawning comprehension, having understood the psychology of a person in a way only an experienced mother could. "You told him you intended to pit him against You-Know-Who. You've always treated him as though he were the number one threat to him, as though You-Know-Who would make Harry a prime target. And now he's obsessed with combat training. To the point where if he fails, it will cost him his life. And it's because he now believes that if he fails in these small things, he certainly cannot win against the big ones, and so his imminent death would be a foregone conclusion."

At these words, Albus simply sank further into his chair, like a reprimanded schoolboy trying to shrink out of view. He simply nodded and said, "It is his destiny."

The three made a collective gasp, now fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. "The prophecy," Remus breathed. "Good God, Albus. It says he will have to fight You-Know-Who."

Albus nodded once more. "It says much more than that, I'm afraid. It says that Harry will be our only hope in the war. That only he has the power to vanquish Voldemort."

After that proclamation, a pall fell over the occupants of the kitchen.

"Well, doesn't that just suck," Moody commented dryly. "Our fate is in the hands of somebody who wears glasses."

"Alastor!" Molly exclaimed. "Wearing glasses is perfectly normal!"

"Has the boy ever bothered to even charm them against summoning?" Moody asked. "Or breaking? Any death eater worth his weight in salt will simply shatter them. He'll be lucky not to be blinded by the fragmenting glass. No wonder he needs constant protection. He hasn't been trained to defend himself from the simplest of threats. The Dark Lord will never strike directly. The boy will have no ability to detect a trap, or any sort of incoming threat. He will always be blind-sided. He needs to learn to erect wards, perimeter charms, develop magical sensitivity. He needs to be trained to carry dark detectors everywhere he goes, to always have his wand readily available. He needs to develop mastery of two or three key spells, like the stunner and the shield and apparation."

The others simply remained silent for a long time before Dumbledore said, "Well, Alastor, it appears that Harry fully agrees with you, given his recent actions."

Just outside the door to the kitchen, unbeknownst to the four occupants, Ginny Weasley was hanging around testing a new and improved version of the twins' extendible ears. Ears capable of wiggling through the Imperturbable charm. At the outset, she hadn't really expected to find out much. After all, she was only being paid a couple of sickles for the work. Fred and George had wanted to know whether the ears were tough enough to push through Dumbledore's charm, and Ginny had elected to attempt the task. She had been surprised when the charm had been erected, and had swiftly moved closer to the warded area. She certainly had been surprised, since Order meetings took place in the evenings, and so she certainly hadn't expected to hear anything of particular interest.

Oh how she had been wrong.

Harry defeat You-Know-Who? It sounded as ludicrous to her as it apparently was to the occupants of the room. For a moment, she gave serious thought to ditching the Order and joining the Death Eaters. After all, what chance did any of them really have? This was You-Know-Who for God's sake. However, not a moment later, her Gryffindor side reasserted itself for the simple reason that she knew she could never raise her wand against her family. As long as they were with Dumbledore, so too would she. Besides, maybe her childhood idol did have some sort of secret weapon he would pull out of the proverbial hat right at the last second. Stranger things had happened. Still though, she had trouble seeing it, especially after the DOM. It wasn't so much that she hadn't been aware of the very real dangers involved in heading out to the Ministry. It wasn't even so much that she thought she wouldn't get into a brawl with death eaters. She had been prepared for that. What galled her to no end was that Harry had been spectacularly duped and not only that, he simply didn't have the magical braun to get out of the mess he dragged them all into. He was pretty average, all things considered and it was truly disappointing. She understood then that he had nothing going for him save a plethora of bravery that bordered on stupidity. Worse yet, his continued survival for his entire existence has been because others were prepared to die for him. In all likelihood, whatever happened in the final battle, if Harry did manage to defeat You-Know-Who, it would most likely be due to the skill, courage, strength of someone else, like Dumbledore, or his true love or something. Frankly, Ginny was not quite prepared to be that person. No, she wouldn't go to the evil side, but she wouldn't exactly stay close to Harry James Potter either. Some other sucker could have that privilege.

Relieved that a chapter in her life had finally come to a close, Ginny skipped upstairs to go file her report with the twins and decide how she wanted to spend her accumulated summer savings.

Harry briefly took a moment to look up at the clear blue California sky and ask to whatever deity was listening what he had done to deserve having Faith foisted upon him.

With a spring in her step, Faith bounced along next to him, momentarily leering at some half-naked blond guy with biceps the size of watermelons as they passed by one another. "That is one hot, hot - ooh, the things I'm thinking of!" she exclaimed, a bag of deep fried onion rings in one hand, a double whopper dripping mayo and beef fat onto the hot pavement in the other.

Even having just exited what was an abnormally large airport, Harry could still hear through the glass wall that separated the outside world from the inside one, the muffled sounds of a voice over the intercom system instructing anyone with unguarded baggage that they would be flogged alive if they tried to check it in. Despite having commuted through London to get to Hogwarts every year for the past five years, Harry still had difficulty adjusting to the magnitude of size, business, apathy, etc. that these mega cities were steeped in. As the pair rode a large, 47-seater coach to the heart of Los Angeles's downtown core, Harry couldn't help but gawk at the multi-level highways, the enormous pillars that held up roads in the sky, cars zipping by at alarming speeds. It was like the Jetsons, he decided finally. Too surreal.

Nor could he quite comprehend the dense layer of smog that swam overtop the city, hovering like a cloud of death. Ew, he thought. That's gross.

Surreptitiously glancing about, Harry dismounted the bus, his belongings charmed to be featherlight, Faith sidling along next to him, carrying her belongings with even greater ease than he was carrying his. Curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, "So exactly how strong are you?"

Faith glanced his way and then shrugged. "Never really tested it out, to tell you the truth, squirt. Enough to break a vamp in half, if it helps."

"Er, not exactly," he muttered. He supposed it didn't matter anyway. As long as he had his trusted wand, he would be fine.

Giles had set them up with a pair of rooms in a nondescript little hotel room outside Disneyland. Why Orange County was anybody's guess. From there, Faith had procured a rental car from not too far away, though Harry wondered as he repaired the glass on the driver's side with a flick of his wand, just how many laws she broke to get it. Not that he cared that much. As a bona fide fighter of all things dark, he felt entitled to a few perks. Much as he suspected Faith did. Not that he wanted to contemplate parallels between himself and the unclean creature he had had the misfortune of sitting next to for the entire trip between London and L.A. While he had been able to suppress the feeling of unease that continued to tingle through him, he had not been able to clear it away completely. As such, he found himself viscerally repulsed by her, though for what reason God only knew. He had never before experienced such a thing in his life, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. Certainly it had not gone unnoticed that she was both fit, and lithe and toned and all those other good things that made girls stunningly beautiful. She was dangerous to boot, and, if Harry were prepared to admit it to himself, she was dangerous in a seductive sort of way.

Two days later, the intrepid, investigating duo found themselves muddling their way through the isolated, rocky terrain of Sulfur Mountain, a particularly nasty mountain with steep slopes and loose gravel. They had just cleared the tree line and were blanketed in the intense heat of the mid-afternoon sun, deerflies and mosquitoes the size of hornets buzzing about them hungrily. Harry found himself continually applying the Impervious Charm to ward them off. To his dismay, they were so single-focused, their constant attacks tended to wear down the charm's effects. Worse yet, they seemed to understand on some sort of deep, visceral level that Faith was strong and fast and her skin was impregnable, and, as such, devoted their efforts to eating Harry's flesh and drinking his blood, the mere thought of which made him queasy, such that he couldn't even muster up the necessary, catalyzing emotions that could bring his wandless abilities to bear. He briefly considered taking another vial of the rage potion that he had purchased in Knockturn Alley. The potion had the effect of inducing a controlled rage that allowed wizards and witches to call upon vast reservoirs of magical energy, often for the purpose of executing feats of wandless magic. He had already tried blasting the creatures out of midair but found that, even despite his superb marksmanship, he was simply too slow to get them. Some wizards were apparently able to drive spells at higher speeds or to control their direction, even going so far as to smear spells across wider areas, or fragment them in mid-flight. It was an area of magical control that he had found difficult, to say the least, and had gone above and beyond the call of his mentor to master. Similarly, wandless magic was out of his capabilities as well, as it was for every other witch and wizard on the planet, save for the most powerful of them, like Dumbledore, who could perform minor feats, like a magical shield or a summoning spell. With the rage potion, he could unleash enough magic to fry them all for quite aways and do it with a mere wave of his hand, calling upon enough energy to hunt the little buggers down and incinerate them. That would teach the little fuckers.

It also didn't help that he didn't have sunscreen, nor did he know of a related charm. As such, he resorted to conjuring a large umbrella and charming it to float overhead, creating an umbra oasis that acted like an insect lightning rod.

All the while, Faith smirked at him. She did so in such a way that Harry knew with every fiber of his being that, if she had ever went to Hogwarts, she would have been sorted into Slytherin.

Harry's tutelage under Kingsley had been directed almost exclusively to stealth, combat and evasion. It had not even occurred to him that he might end up having to learn how to track his quarry. He had been the prey so long, it had been simply ingrained in him that trouble would find him and that he would never have to go out looking for it. The unlikely duo, after several hours of hiking, in which Harry had to constantly down pepper up potions in order to maintain the strength to keep up with Faith's ceaseless stamina, happened upon the remains of a campsite. They both walked about it for a long time, staring at the sleeping bags and burnt out fire that remained. Whoever had set up shop there had used a pair of boulders to either side to keep out the chilly breeze. The sleeping bags were all huddled close to what would have been the fire. A couple of jerry cans and some extra gear were lying uselessly about. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but Faith seemed entranced by the scene, and that at least gave Harry an inkling of being on the right track. Still, they were clearly days late.

"So now what?" Harry asked, breaking the otherwise preternatural silence. Faith did not seem to be listening. Instead, she had knelt down and was scrutinizing something on the mountain floor. When Harry approached, he saw that there were a series of markings on the stones. After peering at them, he began to see that the jagged lines formed crudely drawn words. After a moment of peering over Faith's shoulders, he snorted. "Five by five?" he asked incredulously.

Faith did not respond. Instead, she looked off into the distance, her eyes fixed on infinity as she clearly went through the process of reliving some memory. Harry, however, was not feeling too charitable. Here they had come and trudged brutally up a bloody mountain, after having driven for hours on end, with darkness now just on the horizon and all for a cheesy message that wasn't going to do them a bit of good in finding dark forces for him to tackle. "What a Goddamned bust," he muttered, kicking a loose pebble so that it rolled down and over the edge of the cliff face not five feet from him. "Of all the mentally retarded things I've done in my life, this has got to take the cake." In a dramatic gesture, he threw his arms into the air and looked up at the sky as though he were in religious ecstasy and called, "WHY? WHY MUST I LOVE?" He did not notice that Faith had stood up and was now studying him intensely. Oblivious, he just continued to call out to the vast open space before him. "What the fuck am I doing running around with some steroid bimbo on an American mountain top searching for a bunch of useless, drugged up teenage muggles? Goddammit. Thanks a lot Giles, you fucker. And thank you, Kingsley, for sending me out here on this wild goose chase. I bet all you Goddamned Phoenix club flunkies are sitting around with your posh little mead shit having a good laugh about how Harry's been jerked around and's gonna have to come crawling back on his hands and knees looking like a total dweeb! WELL, FUCK YOU ALL!"

Before Harry could get out another word, a fist collided with the side of his face, sending him sprawling to the ground, his body skidding on the sand-covered rock so that he came perilously close to the mountain's edge. His brain fuzzy from the punch, he absently spat out a spray of blood from where he had bitten his cheek. "Oof," he wheezed belatedly as his senses returned to him. Did Faith punch me? he wondered.

Before he could turn around, however, he felt himself bodily lifted into the air and hurled what must have been ten feet so that he came crashing to the ground near the foot of one of the boulders. "Aargh," he gurgled, instinctively rolling to one side and hearing the skid of a boot on the rocks. "What the fuck?" he managed, scampering away from Faith, who was stalking him menacingly. He drew out his wand reflexively, but with that same inhuman speed, now fueled by an unleashed rage, Faith snatched it out of midair and snapped it like pencil lead and tossed the smoking, fizzling pieces over the mountain's edge.

"You-" he began, falling onto his buttocks and staring wide-eyed between Faith and the edge of the mountain where his wand had went over the edge. "You broke my bloody wand!" Even as he said it, he couldn't quite believe the truth of the statement. His wand - the one thing that had been with him through thick and thin since he had turned eleven. The thing that filled him with warmth every morning, whether it be a conscious or an unconscious thing. His lifeline to magic. Already, he could feel the usual coldness enveloping him, dulling his magical sense back down to its innate level. The act kindled a fire of indignation within him, one which would soon make him very angry.

"You whiny little bitch," Faith growled in low tones. "You don't give a fuck ass about anything but yourself. My friends are dying out there, and I've had to practically carry your worthless hide up this mountain. Fuck, I would have been here by lunchtime if I hadn't had to patiently wait for you to tag along, you good-for-nothing little freak."

"My wand," Harry repeated in a daze, his anger working its way through his brain, entwining itself like a cancer. "You had no right."

Faith laughed bitterly. "The last time I killed some little jumped up fucker who thought he was better than the rest of us..." she trailed off, struggling not to reach down and strangle Harry Potter.

Harry raised his hand and pointed it directly at Faith's heart. Reducto, he thought, willing enough energy to come forward so that he could send her heart and ribcage exploding out the back of her torso. A thin blue beam of energy jetted forward and struck Faith in the chest. Despite its power, which was fueled by Harry's drive, it only had the effect of causing Faith to stagger backwards and stumble and fall. Within a second, she had righted herself, as did Harry, who stared at her. He knew, somehow, that he was in a losing battle. That he simply could not call up enough energy to do damage to her and that the truly useful spells required precision that could only be achieved with a focus, like the Obliviation charm. Worse, he felt his anger subsiding, as though that one curse he had hit her with had somehow drained him of his self-righteousness, leaving him feeling acutely the weariness from the day's exertions.

Faith charged and Harry simply raised his hands, desperately willing a shield into existence. To his amazement, he managed a thin blue sheet of shimmering energy that Faith rammed through, flinching only mildly as burns and blisters formed on her hands from the impact. Not able to hold it, the shield flickered out and Faith lifted Harry into the air with both her hands so that he was struggling feebly as the oxygen was being cut from his brain. She spoke in a dangerous whisper, "I've held my punches with you, kid, but no more. I hate you prissy types. You don't know what real suffering is. You just show up looking for a bit of action and then taking off when things get too tough. I hate your kind."

Harry didn't have the time to contemplate the irony of her words. He simply wheezed pathetically, additional burns forming on her wrists and forearms where his magic desperately fought to repel her. He begged to be elsewhere, anywhere, even and then, in a flash of inspiration, willed himself to apparate to the base of the mountain, hoping that he could manage it. With a slight popping sound, he disappeared from her hands and reappeared five feet away, his limbs just inches from being splinched with the mountainside. Harry staggered about drunkenly and trying to gather his bearings. Belatedly, and to his dismay, he realized that he hadn't managed to apparate nearly as far as he had needed to. Once more, he found himself being slugged in the face and falling to the ground, only to be lifted up once more and pressed against the boulder, his feet still off the ground as his ribcage was slowly being crushed.

He beat his hands futilely against Faith's head and shoulders. "Please," he begged, "please don't." For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of mercy dance across her features, but now, in the twilight, it could have been his imagination. Certainly, she did not let up on the assault. And with his body pressed against a boulder and being so high up and being so unfocused mentally, he knew he could not risk apparating a second time. Instead, he simply continued to struggle, knowing that it was futile given Faith's strength and endurance. Harry resigned himself to die, for he could see that Faith was certainly going to kill him. She had the same crazed light in her eyes that Bellatrix Lestrange had had when Harry had tried to torture her. Strangely enough, it didn't bother him so much. Maybe it was because he wasn't leaving family behind, or because his life had been so shitty anyway, or maybe it was because he was on a cold, desolate mountain with some crazy steroid spawn, and, while it wasn't exactly the coolest place in the world, or the most noble way to die, it was his way, on his terms, while he was living his own life and by his own rules.

As tough as Faith was, and as hard and bitter a life as she had led, she still wasn't hard enough to overcome God and Fate and Destiny. Oddly enough, it was Harry's peculiar aversion to her that ended up saving his life. Being so close to her, feeling her skin on his skin, her breath on his neck, her unrestrained malice, the slick feel of her sweat in the otherwise cold, nighttime air, incensed that part of him that desperately begged to be away from her. With his own consciousness fading, that undercurrent of instincts was left to fill the vacuum, which it did gleefully. In a flash of light and energy that propelled them both from the boulder, Harry transformed, instinctively emitting a blood-curdling scream as his clothes were virtually shredded by the explosion of blood and skin that flew from his back, leaving large white wings in its wake. Wings with faintly luminescent, shimmering white feathers the texture of rose petals. Faith was hurled five feet to one side so that she came crashing down against the ground from the momentum of Harry's body, which half-rolled about flailing as Harry only partly made the animagus transformation, leaving him a disturbing mockery of himself. It was like a really nasty splinching accident. Parts of him were human and other parts were horse-like. Once the initial thrust of the transformation had been completed and the worst of the spasms had passed, he lay simply twitching and moaning, tears oozing out from underneath his tightly shut eyes.

Faith, once having picked herself off the ground, stared at Harry's form with horror. "Holy fuck," she muttered, her gaze raking over his half-transformed body. In addition to the wings, one leg and one arm had turned into horse legs. There was also a unicorn horn sticking out of his forehead. "Paint Jesus white and call him a saviour. You really are a freak."

The fervor that had spurred her on to try and kill Harry had left her now, and in its wake she felt more shame than anything. Shame for having let her sadistic tendencies get the better of her. Normally, she might have elected to put such a creature out of its misery, but feeling the backlash of self-recrimination, Faith, for the moment, resolved to help Harry Potter survive whatever it was his body had done to him. As such, she went about starting a fire near to where he lay, and also arranging his limbs in a position that she hoped would be more comfortable. His hind leg looked to be broken, if the odd angle that it was bent at were any indication. Don't think about that, she told herself. You're hardly in a position to be performing surgery on it. His magic got him into this, it'll get him out. Carefully, Faith poured a bit of water down Harry's throat, hoping he wouldn't choke. "You gotta be pretty thirsty after that shit," she said quietly, unable to pull her gaze away from the train wreck that was his body.

She waited there in the dark, occasionally re-stoking the fire, gently running her hands over Harry's hair, saying soft things to him, tentatively touching his wings out of curiosity. She noted that the transformation of the wings had left large gouges in his back that were drying and leaving heavy scarring. Clearly, it was a bad transformation.

She slept little that night, instead reflecting on just how young Harry looked now that he was in peaceful repose. Occasionally, he would whimper and shift about and sometimes his eyes would open, but not for long. She could only assume that the pain was so horrendous he was simply blacking out from it every time he tried to wake up.

The sun rose late in the mountains, for the horizon line was so much higher. Steeped in the deep shadows of the monoliths, Faith and Harry slept in later than they otherwise might have. Having had years of constant danger and fighting, Faith had trained herself to be a light sleeper, much like Harry had.

As such, she was awakened by the scuffle of boots on the rocks, and the low rumble of an animal. Faith's first instinct was to think bear, and then possibly mountain goat, though she had been fairly certain that neither existed around those parts. Slowly, she rolled over and looked up into the hazy blue Colorado sky. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, though her acute hearing was now picking up the distinct sound of a large animal. I wonder if I can handle a bear, she mused, lifting her head up slowly and peering about. At first she saw nothing, save Harry's malformed body.

Brushing away the grogginess and pinpointing the sounds she could hear, she identified it as coming from behind the boulder. Slowly, she picked herself off the rocky floor and stretched her muscles. Vaguely, she recalled someone telling her to be loud and obnoxious around bears, because it would scare them away.

"Oy!" she called. "Beat it the fuck out of here!" Faith wondered if that was loud and obnoxious enough.

The scuffling and the grunting stopped and Faith wondered what exactly was going through the creature's mind. However, before she could do anything else, she saw a large, blurry ape-like figure come flying out from behind the boulder right towards her.

It should be noted that Faith was not exactly the learned type, though she had been around the block a few times. Still, she knew that whatever that creature was, with its mutilated body and matted fur and bared fangs and its creepy ability to jump really high - whatever that thing was, it was not exactly the National Geographic type. In the blink of an eye, it landed right before her and shot out one clawed hand which, if Faith were still standing where she had been, would have taken her head completely off. Fortunately, being gifted with superhuman speed, she managed to duck out of the way and do the first thing she could think of. She shoved the creature as hard as she could.

To her credit, she managed to knock all six hundred pounds of it off its feet so that it landed squarely on its ass. All right, she thought, taking a step back and reassessing her position. So you probably can't kill a bear. Not that the freaky ass fucker in front of you is a bear. No, of course not. That would be too fucking easy.

The creature, once having gotten over the shock that somebody was strong enough to knock it over, narrowed its eyes and gazed at Faith in a disturbingly calculating way before lunging forward and emitting a piercing shriek.

Faith barely dodged a swipe of its claws and managed to give it a direct punch in the head, jostling its brain about inside its skull. She followed with another lightning strike that forced the creature to take a step back before recovering and managing to grab her with one of its clawed hands and lift her into the air. Thinking fast, all the while oxygen being cut off from her brain, she focused her attention on grabbing one of its fingers and prying it lose with all her strength and then, in a show of strength, snapping it so that the creature wailed in anger. Faith found herself carelessly hurled to one side so that she slammed face first into the mountain side. Already, she felt the creature coming up behind her, and it was all she could do to parry another vicious swipe that had her seeing stars. Acting on instinct, she managed to deliver a flurry of bicycle kicks to its abdomen, whereupon she distinctly heard the sound of ribs cracking.

The creature did not even seem to notice, though its face contorted into a scowl of fury. It swatted down on her face and smashed her head into the mountain side once more, and leaving claw marks on her cheek. Still, Faith did not relent and instead, sprang to her feet while delivering another sharp kick to its abdomen, before dodging another swipe and roundhousing the creature clean in the head. "Gotcha, fucker!" she said as the creature's head snapped to one side with the sound of its neck breaking.

Faith wiped the sweat and blood from her brow as the creature fell to the ground. For the first time, she had an opportunity to look at the creature with an appraising gaze. She was fairly certain that she had never heard of any creature quite like the thing in front of her. Its face looked as though somebody had smashed it up and then did a really poor job reconstructing it. As though the creature were a mockery of an ape. Some sort of German art expressionist version of what an ape would look like. And if she had any doubt that the thing in front of her were a freak, they were quickly extinguished as it let out a another growl and then got to its feet.

"No fucking way," Faith breathed, taking an instinctive step back. She felt as though she had deployed all her adrenalin stores and was now feeling the dizziness and nausea that accompanied the aftermath of a fierce battle.

The creature swung its head from side to side before settling on Faith. It sneered, or possibly smirked before charging yet again.

Faith did the only thing she could think of that would keep her from being completely pummeled. She jumped. The creature must not have been expecting that, for it simply continued onward at full speed, never realizing that it missed its quarry and hurling itself clean over the edge of the cliff, hopefully never to be seen again. Faith immediately ran to the edge and peered down to see how far the creature had fallen and whether it was planning to get up anytime soon. It had dropped a good thirty feet before its body had impacted with the side of the mountain whereupon it rolled to a stop at the base of a tree. Faith stared at it for a long time. Several minutes in fact, all the while keeping her keen eyes trained on it for any sign of movement. When she saw none, she finally let herself relax. It was dead.

However, before she could have a chance to crawl back next to Harry and lick her wounds, her gaze fell upon the sight of a medium sized town sprawled out near the base of the mountain. Faith pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She estimated the town's size to be somewhere between one and two hundred thousand people. Not very large, but large enough to have all kinds of amenities at their disposal. And large enough to be on a map of the area. Still, she could not recall seeing any such thing when she had gotten directions to the area. Nor had anyone mentioned such a place. Normally, she wouldn't have cared, but coincidences were starting to aggregate and Faith didn't like it. A deep sense of foreboding stole over her, despite the looming warmth and brightness of the sun. Somehow, she knew that all her answers and all her troubles would come from that place. Despite how high up she was, her enhanced vision allowed her to spy the large welcome sign that was conveniently pointed upward and in her direction. On it, she could just make out the words: RACOON CITY.

All her answers, and all her troubles. She let herself muse about the town for a moment, her gaze flickering to the carcass of the strange creature. The sound of Harry whimpering drew her attention, and she resigned to put thoughts of Raccoon City out of her mind for just a moment in order to see to her companion's needs.


	4. Raccoon City

Chapter Four

Raccoon City

Jill Valentine twitched uncomfortably in her bed. It was the middle of the night, and moonlight was slanting in through the bedroom window of her third floor, single-room apartment. It had been three months since her narrow escape from the mansion, and she was still having nightmares. She had seen a lot of shitty things in her time as a STARS member, and had, at least prior to the events in May, believed she had developed a thick skin against the gruesome carnage that humans could inflict on one another. Twirling babies on bayonets couldn't compare to the horror that was the Umbrella corporation.

Whenever she caught sight of something that was the same colour of the viscous, corrosive pus that oozed out of the mouths of animated corpses, she had to fight down an instinctive gag response. Whenever she saw the glazed look in someone's eyes, she thought of the walking dead. Limps, cuts, bruises, and malformed shadows came together to torment her one second at a time. And that was when she was awake.

Jill bolted upright, her damp comforters pooled about her like a feeble shield, sweat glistening on her cheek, catching the rays of moonlight. A minute passed and her breath slowed, her heartbeat returned to normal, and, not five minutes after that, she was plodding to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Goddammit, girl, she admonished, get a hold of yourself. You're not going to do anybody any good like this. You're tougher than that.

Not a week after the mess had ended, she had thrown herself full force into a torrid and ultimately doomed love affair with Redfield, who had suffered similarly through the events at the mansion. They had been together in mind and spirit as they fought to expose Umbrella, as they fought desperately to warn the world and the inhabitants of Raccoon City. But, as always, no one wanted to listen. It hadn't taken long before they both realized that they were seriously fucked up, and that communing with one another wasn't exactly proving to be very therapeutic. Funny that the only thing holding their relationship together had been a nightmare memory of flesh-eating zombies. Was it any wonder that Chris had gone ahead and taken a flagrant bribe from Umbrella to disappear overseas? Jill pursed her lips at the memory. Truth be told, she wasn't very angry with him; more that she was simply forlorn that they hadn't given her the same offer. She probably would have taken it, if they had. Now, she was just tired, and had been thankful that she had been slapped with a desk job, despite how both heavy and empty it made her feel.

Worse yet, she was broke and the recent smear campaign against her made her job prospects outside her department bleak. Lacking any moral fortitude and being fundamentally risk-averse, she found herself muddling along one day after the next, while simply waiting for the eventual outbreak of the G-virus. No doubt it would be the day she died ignominiously at the hands of a zombie horde. She couldn't say the prospect was all that appealing, but she really didn't have the energy to pick herself up by the bootstraps and take off. Damnable inertia.

Raccoon City was a city of many contradictions. On the one hand, it was a resort town that blended rugged mountain terrain, lush, alpine forests and a flat desert plateau. On the other hand, it boasted all the standard amenities, including a vibrant nightlife, rife with a seedy side and an elegant one. It was jazzy and soulful and vacant. It had its clean parts but there was a grime lurking underneath. It was free and simple and always under the control of Umbrella, the corporation that supplied nearly half the residents' jobs directly and all of their jobs indirectly. It was a resort town of sorts, and yet it got few visitors. Raccoon City residents prided themselves on their privacy. It was a place of blissful ignorance.

Many of the people who worked and lived there regarded it as something of an oasis. Rent and housing would be extraordinarily high if it weren't for the fact that Umbrella tried to keep Raccoon City's existence as low key as possible. To its inhabitants, the affordable housing was just another bonus to living there. It was a place that had no downside risks, as far as anyone could tell.

Old man Marshall was just polishing the dark mahogany bars and tables in his out of the way little pub just on the Northern tip of Raccoon City's outer limits. He had lived there his entire life and had inherited the pub, which was named, "The Bear's Lie in," from his father, who had ran it for thirty odd years before passing it down to his son. Marshall liked to go hunting in the summers. He liked cars, trucks, guns and making love to his exotic, Swedish wife, Ilsa, who knew only enough English to get by, and was very doting. The day was coming on eleven o'clock in the morning and he was just getting ready to open up shop. The Bradley sisters, both of whom were meaty, but still nice to look at, would be coming in to help with the usual lunchtime crowd. He liked a woman with a good sampling of flesh. Not too much, mind you, but just enough to pack the curves in all the right places.

Old man Marshall sure liked his life. It was simple and clean and full of the good, wholesome things that God invented for man's enjoyment. The way he figured it, as long as he did the work and kept on trucking and providing for his wife, good things would simply keep coming to him.

"Oy, Suze," he called as the first of the Bradley sisters walked into the pub. "You're early."

"Just a wee, boss," she said cheerfully. "Mary'll be in, in a bit."

"I don't doubt it."

Suze went directly to the back and began working on setting up the kitchen and the till.

It was not long before the first customer of the day entered.

"Ben, you're early!" exclaimed Marshall, taking in the sight of his longtime fishing buddy, Ben McConnell. It did not take a doctor to figure out that Ben was unwell. "Oy, Ben, you look a bit peaky," said old man Marshall. "Whatcha been gettin' yerself upto last night?"

Ben merely grunted and approached, one arm bent in an unnatural way, a deadness in his eyes that had never been there before. When Ben was only ten feet away, Marshall began to realize that something was amiss. Ben's skin was grey and flaked, and... was that blood? He also seemed to be drooling something that looked like urine. All the while he moaned in a toneless sort of way that made the hairs on the back of Marshall's neck prickle uncomfortably. "Listen, Ben, I think you'd best be gettin' over to yer doctor. You know, toute suite, as they say. You're in need of some penicillin or something, I reckon."

Ben, however, did not seem to be listening. He instead chose to amble forward with a drunken gait. He had stopped moaning, though Marshall wasn't sure whether that was a good thing. Ben came right up to the bar, stumbling stupidly over the stools, which he absently pushed out of his way. Marshall took a calculated step back, making sure that Ben wasn't within reaching distance. "Ben, listen. You'd best be going, or it'll be the police station where we'll be sorting this mess out." The usual sternness and conviction with which Marshall spoke had ebbed away. Even he knew that his words were simply not registering in Ben's brain. What happened to you, old friend? Marshall wondered.

Just then, Suzanne Bradley came out from the back room to find out what was going on, and whether there would be food needing to be served in the imminent future. Seeing only his profile from the side and seeing him leaning over the bar, obviously in amiable chatter with her boss and longtime mentor, Suzanne approached good old, trusty rusty Ben McConnell. In retrospect, she could have pinpointed the exact moment when Marshall realized her approach and contemplated the all too likely scenario that she was going to get mauled, and, decided not to do anything about it. Whether he chose not to warn her, because he was too dumbfounded to speak, or whether he was just plain curious what would happen when somebody got close to the caricature of Ben that had entered his bar, Suze would never know. She cheerfully slapped Ben on the back, effectively grabbing his attention. "Aren't ya even gonna say hi?" she asked. "Shame on you!"

Marshall stood fascinated by the events that were transpiring before him. He could see the look of unbridled hunger that Ben expressed in his dark eyes, and he could see it being shifted from him to Suze. "Aren't you even going to say hi?" Marshall heard her say.

Ben swiveled his head to look directly at her, and for a brief instant, a frown crossed Suze's features. "Eh, what's wrong with you?" she asked, peering at his skin, which was the colour of microwaved meat. "Boss?" she asked, turning to face old man Marshall, who could not even begin to comprehend how to answer her question. Not that there was really time for it.

Ben leaned in close to Suze's shoulder, and pushed his face into her throat, where he promptly took a large bite of her soft, pink flesh. It was not a love bite, or a nibble of affection. No, it was a great big, honking gouge that sprayed blood all over Suze's sunshine yellow tank top and the freshly polished mahogany bar.

"Gah!" Suze shrieked, stumbling backward as she pushed against Ben to separate herself from him. Luckily, she managed not to fall over, but before she could really start getting away, she felt Ben's strong hands wrap themselves around her waist. "Ben!" she cried out. "Stop! Marshall, help!"

Tears blurred Suze's vision as she spied around. Before too long, however, she felt Ben's strong jaws rip into her left breast. Displaying desperate strength she never knew she had, Suze broke out of Ben's iron grip and staggered away, instinctively clutching at her breast, only to flinch away from the contact with the mutilated flesh.

She staggered to the ground and fell over, gurgling blood. She tried to drag herself away, but Ben crawled awkwardly on top of her and began licking the back of her neck, which only caused Suze to begin making a muling sound spliced in with please of mercy. "Ben, stop, please. It hurts, Ben. Please."

But Ben did not stop. He dug his fingers into the soft tissue on her sides and began ripping her apart, blood and gastro-intestinal juices sloshing about the otherwise immaculate floor. Ben grinned delightedly, blood all over his lips and chin. He stuffed handfuls of Suze's meat into his face, chewing hungrily like a man possessed.

Sadly for Ben, it would be the last bite he ever took. There was a deafening report of a gun being fired. A shotgun, to be exact. The shotgun round partially vapourized the back of Ben's head, leaving his brains to ooze wetly out of his skull and thud uselessly to the floor.

Marshall stared down at the mess that was his best friend and the girl he spent countless days leering at. "Jesus H. Christ," he muttered. "What the fuck happened to you, Ben?"

Just then, Mary walked into the pub. "Hiya-" she stopped in mid-salutation as she spied the carnage that lay between them. After a minute of observation, Mary's mouth working soundlessly as she went through a range of emotions, she finally asked, "Boss?"

"I'm sorry, Mary," Marshall said, lowering his weapon.

"Sis?" Mary repeated, more to herself, it seemed.

Marshall, satisfied that Ben wasn't getting up anytime soon, turned his back to the nightmare and dialed the police station. It could be said that Marshall had little reason over the course of his life to actually require the services of the Raccoon City police department. Still, he was man enough to admit to being just the least bit discomfited by the response of a busy signal. Don't they have upwards of fifty lines to handle emergency situations? There was a gurgling sound behind him, and a cry that was abruptly cut off. Marshall, still riding his thrill of energy from having fired his shotgun at a live target - something he hadn't been able to do since the ban on bear hunting came down - simply dismissed it as the stressed ramblings of Mary, who was most likely inspecting her dead sister. Marshall tried the RCPD again. However, before he managed to complete the three digit code for emergency police response, he heard a distinctive moaning sound. Except this time, it was female.

Unnerved for the first time that day, Marshall gently lowered the receiver onto the hook and turned slowly around. Next to him stood Suze, tendrils of Mary's flesh hanging loosely from her mouth. It did not go unnoticed that Suze's shirt had been torn to rags and, for the first time in his life, old man Marshall was getting the clearest and fullest view of Suze's ample breasts. He found himself getting a hard on.

Marshall whipped the gun to one side in a skillful attempt to bash Suze's head in. He almost thought he had gotten away with it too, as the butt of the shotgun approached her head. However, he was sadly mistaken. Without moving a limb, Suze effectively incapacitated old man Marshall. She spat a gob of acidic pus into Marshall's face, causing him to instinctively flinch, and, once the pain receptors came to life, futilely claw at his face to stop the searing pain. Suze casually pushed him backwards, the gun forgotten, his arms flailing about as he landed squarely on his butt. Suze then proceeded to crawl on top of him and begin feeling around for a hunk of tasty meat. To her dismay, Marshall was a particularly lean man. Fortunately for her, she found his still erect penis, and after massaging it for a few minutes, she determined that it was pretty much flesh all the way. Kneeling down and bending forward she got into position, ripped off his pants and swallowed his penis whole.

Raccoon City would never quite be the same again.

All day, reports rolled in through the media and on the phones. People were trying to make sense of the horror and give names to the chaos that infected Raccoon City. Jill could only think of one name fitting enough for it all. Umbrella. The bitter, angry, rejected part of her wanted to run outside and scream, "I told you so, motherfuckers! I told you, and you pea-brained small-town rejects just couldn't get a fucking clue! And now look at you! You're zombies!" Fortunately, she exercised enough self-restraint not to go down and do that, which certainly would have cost her life. No, instead, she just sighed and gazed out at the wreckage from her window. How quickly things turn to dogshit, she mused, seeing a police cruiser crash into a desperate cyclist. Who the fuck needs zombies when you've got the RCPD in all their world-renowned glory? The officer got out of the cruiser and hastily put a bullet in the cyclist's head, before turning to the lone zombie that was tracking its way across the street towards the law enforcement agent. Trevor's his name, she thought, recalling seeing him around the department. She remembered him giving her both ogling looks and pitying ones after the incident at the mansion, which news reporters had dubbed "the Unfortunate Umbrella Affair".

Trevor fired his entire remaining clip into the zombie's chest and, in his desperate attempt to finish the zombie, simply continued to pull the trigger, more sweat breaking on his skin as each time the gun merely reported a click.

Idiot, she thought irritably. Aim for the head. Figured you'd get at least that right. Trevor turned tail and ran away. He's so going to get eaten alive, she thought, turning from the window.

"Well, Jill, old girl," she said aloud in the deepening twilight gloom of her silent apartment. "It's time for you to make a decision. Are you going to sit around here like dead weight just waiting for the end to come, or are you going to go out there and kick some ass?" She still wasn't sure whether she planned to actually try and survive or simply go out zombie hunting until she got picked off. Neither avenue seemed appealing, somehow. "Ah, what the fuck. May as well do the whole try and survive thing. Fuck, it's so cliché," she said, lighting a cigarette and taking a puff, silently thanking Brad for getting her hooked on nicotine. Fuck, yeah.

Jill donned snug fitting pants and a tank top, because clearly it was suitable zombie-fighting attire. She then loaded her standard issue .38 and left her apartment.

Dawn and Xander had taken to wandering aimlessly through the streets of Raccoon City, often illicitly posting WANTED signs with Buffy's and Willow's faces plastered across them. It was a rather pathetic effort, even they had to admit. Still, it was all they had, as they waited for Faith and her sidekick to show up and save the day.

"We're so useless," Dawn whined pitifully.

Xander took a seat next to her on the steps of a large Umbrella corporation building. "Normally, this is where I'd step in and dissuade you from entering a negative mood spiral, and after sharing experiences that are meant to be cathartic, I would then summon example after example illustrating just what unique and worthwhile contributions you bring to this endeavour."

"And?" Dawn asked hopefully.

Xander shrugged. "I just don't have the energy to be that creative with the lies right now. Come back later, maybe."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're an ass?" Dawn inquired.

Xander cocked his head and thought about it. "Not exactly. Does Anya telling me she likes my ass count?"

"Er, no."

Xander just shrugged and proceeded to eat his Oh Henry bar. Chocolate had to serve as their lunches, because they were on the cusp of poverty.

"I just don't understand it," Dawn said, kicking a loose pebble. "There's some mighty military giant out there with vast resources that's hunting us down. You'd think we'd be able to deduce at least something about what it is they're all about. You know, a name, at least. We've always been able to do that."

Xander tossed his chocolate bar wrapper into the wind, where it fluttered in a breeze for a moment, before being carried off to whack against a "WELCOME TO UMBRELLA" sign. "We just never get a break. That's all there is to it," replied Xander, staring wistfully off in the direction of a brunette in a low-cut yellow tank top. For a moment, he remained oblivious to Dawn's intense, scrutinizing gaze. Eventually he cottoned on to her preoccupation and followed her line of sight to the Oh Henry bar wrapper and the large sign that it was now plastered to.

"Umbrella," Xander said thoughtfully before looking down at the small print underneath the sign. It read: MAKERS OF THE WORLD'S MOST ADVANCED INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTS AND LEADERS IN THE FIELD OF BIOTECHNOLOGY.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Dawn slowly.

"Does it involve whipped cream and chocolate syrup?" he replied rhetorically, before saying, "I think it's time we open up a can of whoop ass."

"Yeah," Dawn agreed, turning around to face the lone sky scraper that marked the center of Raccoon City's downtown core. She gazed up at the monster building, which, from the front steps, loomed past the clouds and to infinity. "And we're going to do it with guns. Lots of guns."

Xander nodded. "Guns are nice."

With that, the duo headed to the nearest sporting goods store.

With Harry's altered appendages, Faith had discovered that he was a smidgeon heavier than he would have otherwise been. Not that it was a bother to her, given her super strength. She was just thankful that she didn't run across any obstacles on her trip down the mountainside. She had briefly considered holing up in the mountains for a few days and waiting for Harry to come around, but, after an hour of agonized self-questioning, she finally decided that the only thing she was good for was doing stuff, and nobody could fault her for simply acting. Harry had said that wizards would swoop in if cases like him ever showed up, and so she simply had to trust that, when she got him to a hospital, the magical alarm bells would start ringing. Maybe then she could ditch him and focus on the task of finding her compatriots. You're better solo, anyway, she affirmed to herself. None of this having a sidekick crap. It's too Chuck Norris.

Faith reached Raccoon City's center by about 2 in the afternoon. Just a couple hours after old man Marshall had his penis eaten. There was a surprising flurry of activity, which Faith duly noted. Moreover, the air had a palpable, frantic quality to it. She probably wouldn't have noticed it, except that she had gotten used to the feel in the final days before Sunnydale's destruction, when the town had experienced a mass exodus. Only now, it didn't seem like people were leaving so much as they were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Like they were simply waiting to die.

It made her shiver just a little bit, and she decided as a matter of instinct that she would perhaps hole Harry up somewhere and then do a little investigating. Couldn't hurt to be too careful, after all.

"Come on, squirt," she said, shifting Harry's bulk to her other shoulder and making her way to one of the less reputable looking motels. "Need a room," she said to the desk clerk, flicking a gold Visa card onto the counter, compliments of the Watcher's Council. She had to admit, after all these years, they were actually good for something.

"Did you want that by the hour?" the man asked, eyeing Faith's bundle.

"The day," Faith replied.

The man acceded and Faith quickly took her charge to an upstairs suite, where she deposited her charge. "All right," she said, staring down at the pitiful bundle of flesh and feathers. "I'm going to go to a hospital and see if I can't manhandle a doctor into coming out this way.

"Faith," Harry wheezed, his eyes fluttering.

"You're awake," she said, surprised. "Harry?"

"Yeah," he managed, though it was clear he was having to struggle. "Wha' happen'd?"

"Er," she said, not having expected to have to answer that question so soon, or possibly at all. Oh, just come clean with it. If he protests, you can chloroform his ass. "I tried to kill you. Do you remember that?"

Harry just smiled with something that lookd like fondness.

Okay, weird, she thought, before continuing. "Well, you sort of, er, transformed..

Transformed? he mouthed, though no actual sound came out.

"Well, yeah," she said, as if to confirm the clearly ludicrous statement. "You know, as in like, changing from one thing to another."

"I know," he wheezed. "Wha- transformation?"

"Well, Harry," she said, taking a deep breath and steeling her nerves. "I don't know how to quite tell you this, but you've got wings. And one of your arms and one leg looks like that of a horse. And you've got some sort of cone thing sticking out of your head. It's really freaky looking."

Harry scrunched up his face in concentration as he digested her words. And then, after a moment, he smiled again and nodded. "Cool."

"Cool?" Faith echoed disbelievingly. "That's your big response? Cool? Please tell me you know what the fuck's going on."

"Didn't expect the wings," he mused. "Can't really feel them."

Faith bit down on the urge to snap the little blighter's neck right then and there.

Harry, mercifully oblivious, just continued, "It's my animal form. I thought I was a unicorn, but I don't think unicorns have wings. Must be something related."

"A winged unicorn?" she asked blankly. "You can turn into that?"

"Harry nodded. "I was looking into it before we left, but I didn't know how to do it. It's very complicated and dangerous to learn without supervision. You could hurt yourself."

"No shit," she said, raking over his body for the thousandth time with her gaze. "No shit, indeed."

"I'll be all right," he said. "Just need some rest. And some food. Thirsty."

"Right, of course," Faith replied. "You and me both. I'll just pop downstairs and see what I can rustle up. You - don't go anywhere."

Faith, relieved, exited the modest one bedroom she had rented. For some reason she couldn't understand, talking to Harry creeped her out. The things he said, the way he acted... it was as though he belonged to a completely different world. Sure, she had seen her fair share of strange things. She herself had mystical powers, but there was something about Harry that was different. Putting her inarticulable unease to the side, Faith made her way towards the nearest convenience store she could find. Now that Harry was conscious and talking, and since he didn't seem too worried about his situation, she decided that maybe she would stick to her original plan and just let him work it out with his magic. There was really no need getting doctors involved. She could just pick up a few basic supplies, some food, some basic first aid and then retreat to their room for the rest of the day. Now that things were coming together and settling down, she felt the weariness of the last twenty-four hours work its way through her muscles.

Harry was just about to settle into a doze after Faith left when he heard the distinct sound of a thump against the door. It sounded as though somebody had thrown a large, rotten watermelon at it. Was somebody knocking? Harry wondered, easing his way into more of a sitting position in order to study the door more closely. He briefly considered calling out to see if anyone was beyond the door, but decided not to. It would probably be safer to just pretend that it didn't mean anything.

Except that, after a few seconds had passed, there was another thump. Two of them, in rapid succession, as a matter of fact.

Damn, Harry thought irritably. Deciding he'd better be forceful, he called out, "Who's there?" Harry had half-expected Faith to call back to him, which is why he was distinctly unnerved by the eerie silence that followed his question. "Listen," he said, calling out to the still air, "I'm armed, so you'd better-"

A large crack formed in the center of the door, accompanied by the sound of another thump. This one much louder.

"Oh fuck, Harry thought, staring at the door. Who the fuck's out there?

"Faith!" he called out, praying to whatever deity was listening that Faith could somehow hear him. "Faith! Help! Somebody!" Another hard thwack against the door and this time, the wood split apart completely, letting a head partway through the door. Harry's first thought was, Jesus, somebody's headbutting my door to pieces. And his second was, Jesus, how fucking weird is that?

After a moment of study, Harry saw that there was something distinctly wrong with the person that was climbing through his doorway. First of all, the person lumbered cumbersomely. The second, their skin was the colour of microwaved meat. The third was that the young adult male had half his face missing, and the wound appeared to be pretty fresh.

Oh my God, Harry thought, awestruck and horrified. It's a zombie. Harry had heard of inferi, which Voldemort was using to wreak havoc upon the world. From what he understood, they were animated corpses. Could this being in front of him, be such an example of a creature? For some reason, Harry thought not. It didn't exactly make sense, given his location. He was in the USA, for God's sake, and Harry knew for a fact that Voldemort had little pull across the Atlantic. No, this was something else, he decided.

Not that it mattered, since Harry had fuck all to defend himself. The creature meandered toward him, moaning in a way that was most disturbing.

"Er, is there something I can help you with?" Harry asked in as pleasant a tone as possible, while trying to hide the nervous quiver in his voice. He scooted over to the far side of the bed.

The zombie fixed its one good eye on him for a moment before coming closer, its arms outstretched comically.

"Okay, stay back,' Harry said, nearly falling off the other side of the bed in his haste to get away.

The zombie just moaned.

Harry, not taking his eyes off the creature, fumbled around for an object with which he could defend himself. Silently, he cursed Faith for breaking his wand. The ruddy zombie wouldn't have a prayer if he were armed.

Unfortunately, all he managed to get his hands on was a pen, which he held onto for dear life. The zombie crawled onto the bed, oblivious of Harry's pitiful, makeshift weapon.

"BACK!" Harry said shrilly, making pathetic little stabbing motions with his pen. The zombie just swatted his one good arm away and proceeded to crawl on top of Harry.

"GAH!" Harry cried out as the zombie dug into his torso. "NO, GET AWAY!" Harry beat feebly against its body with one hand. The creature just leered lewdly at him and bent its head down to rip out a hunk of Harry's cheek, Harry all the while twisting his head back and forth and crying out. "NO! PLEASE DON'T! PLEASE! GOD HELP ME! PLEASE, OH GOD!"

As the zombie pressed its teeth down against Harry's skin, Harry cried let out an ear-piercing shriek that was accompanied by a bright flash of light and a surge of magic that shredded the other half of the zombie's face. The creature reeled back drunkenly and touched its now mutilated skin as if trying to understand what exactly had happened to it. Harry paused and looked fearfully at the creature, only to gaze upon the now truly hideous visage before him. The zombie's face was little more than a skull with blood-encrusted strips of flesh hanging from it. One eyeball hung out of its socket and was dangling by a string of greyish jelly.

"GAH!" Harry wailed feebly kneeing the creature in the chest. The zombie bent down and bit into Harry's thigh, causing him to scream out again, this time, another display of accidental magic propelling the zombie off his body and causing it to roll off the bed. Through the burst of magic and the sharp sting of the bite and now flowing blood, Harry felt distinctly woozy.

Through the descending haze on his mind, Harry knew that the creature was not dead. He knew that whatever he had done to it was simply not enough, and that, while his magic had protected him thus far, it would not continue to do so. Eventually, the zombie would push past his natural magical barriers and begin consuming him.

You can't even bloody walk, Potter, he scolded himself. Look at you. You need to fix this animagus business, and you need to do it fast. Harry focused on his human leg and began massaging it, taking care to be gentle around the zombie bite. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on the mental image of a unicorn. Relax, he told himself in a soothing tone, even as he heard the zombie moaning in the background. Do not think about that. Focus, relax.

Harry dragged himself into a trance, despite his pounding heart and the wounds and the stiffness and the hunger. He blotted out thoughts of Faith and of his friends and of Voldemort and of the zombie that was trying to eat him. Seeking out that part of his magic that he was just starting to learn how to feel, he tried pushing magic down through his leg in order to cause it to transform. Keeping his eyes closed and his hand on the leg, he slowly felt the transformation take place, hairs growing where there were none before, the joint shifting, his foot softening and reshaping into a hoof. He sighed contentedly, before snapping his eyes open and staring at the zombie, its rancid breath tickling his nose.

The zombie moaned, and Harry just closed his eyes once more, pushing that much harder to blot out the sense of imminent peril that was trying to demand his attention. He felt the zombie take a swipe at his face, but Harry just let it strike him. He had more important things to do, like completing the transformation. It took only a second to transform his other arm, now effectively rendering him useless.

The creature bit down on his unicorn leg calf, but Harry ignored it, instead simply using occlumancy to blot out the pain as he mentally pictured unicorns jumping over a fence. Focus and relax. He blotted out the flow of silvery-red blood dripping onto the bed, and the sounds of the creature chewing, and the push to expedite the process.

Instead, Harry just lay back and let the warmth of his magic spread through his torso and his neck and head, until when he finally opened his eyes, he saw the world in a completely different light.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

The first thing that struck him as odd was that he was colour blind. Everything appeared to exist in various shades of light and dark. However, it was not quite as simple as that. Each object seemed to emit its own light, some even having a halo of energy around it. He measured things by assessing the degree of luminosity. Even the zombie was made up of patches of glowing energy. Hell, even the air currents sometimes shimmered. It was as though everything in the world that had mass or speed had an associated brightness.

Finding that his magic had positioned his limbs properly, Harry limped out of the bed and onto the floor, missing a step as he adjusted to his new form and also having to compensate for his broken leg. He tried to steady himself, but still couldn't quite manage to keep the quiver from his remaining three legs. He was no longer looking at the zombie, but, nevertheless, he could feel it moving towards him, the same way a person could feel the rays of sunshine on their back.

It was amazing. It was like sonar, only so much more precise and informative. Harry experimentally crouched down in order to brace himself. Yes, it seemed that the zombie did not discriminate between humans and animals. It would try and eat him regardless. He made a kicking gesture with his back leg and discovered that he had in fact caught the zombie in the chest, effectively sending it sprawling to the ground with a broken rib. He had no illusions that a broken rib would not slow the creature one bit. Harry, as such, carefully turned himself around, finding it extremely difficult to do so given that he was new to the form, and that his leg was broken and that there was little room for him to maneuver. The zombie was getting back up, but Harry did not intend to let it complete that task. He dragged himself forward at what was a snail's pace, and managed to butt the zombie in the chest with the side of his head, sending it sprawling to the floor a second time. Harry then proceeded to step on the creature's various joints, like its knees, and then working its way to the zombie's head. Harry once reaching its head and managing to ignore the gashes the creature was inflicting with its hands as it tried to claw out Harry's flesh, Harry pressed his horn into the zombie's eye socket and pushed all the way down into the brain matter. He held his horn there for a good few seconds, after which he felt the zombie's energy dissipate.

It was dead.

Harry let out a long whinny that was his attempt at a sigh.

When he looked up, he saw Faith standing there in the doorway, a bag of sandwiches and crisps and soft drinks in her hand, her mouth agape. Harry just snorted and whinnied a second time before trudging past the zombie and collapsing on the wood floor. After a moment of feeling around with his magic, he managed to transform, albeit slowly, back into his human self. He let out a piteous moan and just lay there. "Faith," he said weakly.

In a moment, he felt himself being lifted onto the bed, Faith ripping away the blood-soaked part of the covers. "Tell me everything that happened," she commanded.

Harry did not have the heart to argue, so instead simply laid it out as simply and as concisely as he could manage. "Not two minutes after you left," he said, propping himself up and vaguely aware that he hadn't managed to retract his wings, all the while biting greedily into his ham and cheese sandwich, "there was a thumping on the door. I called out your name, but no one responded. Then, this guy's head-" Harry pointed to the zombie accusingly. "That guy's head just came crashing through the door, followed by the rest of him. I told him to stay back, but there was nothing for it. You know, I actually think he might have been a zombie. His skin colour was grey and he tried to eat me, while I was alive. My magic fried off his face and he totally didn't care. He also wasn't bothered by the broken rib I gave him. Having no defense-" he gave her an accusing glance before continuing, "I completed my transformation and managed to stamp on his kneecaps and then impale him through the eye socket with my unicorn horn."

Faith just sat there stunned. "Whoa," she said thoughtfully. "That's fucked up." Then she peered closely at his skin and said in a thoughtful tone. "You know, I think I've seen a few more of these guys running around the city."

"You mean they're locals?" Harry asked incredulously.

Faith shook her head. "No, I don't. I think there's something seriously wrong with this town." She scratched her head. "I just can't quite figure out what it is."

Just then, they heard the sounds of gunfire in the distance, punctuated by a shrill cry that was abruptly cut off.

"Fucking Hell," Harry muttered in the ensuing silence.

"I do believe we have some serious problems," Faith sighed, staring out the window. "And until we can find somebody to give us some answers, all we're going to end up doing is running around like chickens with our heads cut off."

"Where do you suppose we should head next?" he asked.

Faith shrugged. "I reckon the police station'd be a good place to start. Possibly the news." Faith reached over and plucked the remote control off the nightstand and casually flicked on the TV, surfing until she reached a local news station. "Christ, it's not like we're going anywhere with that leg of yours. And clearly I can't leave you lying around. You're bloody useless."

"If someone hadn't snapped my wand," Harry began venomously.

Faith just burst out with a laugh. "Your wand? That stupid piece of wood. Yeah, fat fucking lot of good it did you, didn't it, squirt? You and your little potions and trinkets and shit. Ain't worth a damn against the real deal. Ain't worth a damn against me, and ain't worth a damn against the shit that's out there, that's for sure."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Harry replied, still seething, his gaze travelling down to her forearm, where the scars from his shield had impacted with her skin. He eyed them greedily, fantasies of inflicting more pain on her dancing through his mind's eye. Faith seemed to sense where his thoughts were going, for she narrowed her eyes.

The pair of them were oblivious to the narration of the news anchor, who was describing the rising carnage in the city, the wave of destruction. Faith shot out a hand and gripped Harry's wrist painfully. "The only reason you're alive, you little shit, is because-"

Faith did not get a chance to finish her statement, for Harry flexed one of his wings, which, despite its feathery softness and delicate beauty, also had the power to pack a punch like a rampaging hippogriff. Faith was whacked in the face so hard she was sent sprawling off the bed and onto the wood floors. "If I remember correctly," Harry said in clipped tones, "I knocked you a good ten feet without my little trinkets, didn't I? Besides, you wouldn't have gotten within a foot of me if you hadn't sucker punched me from the side. Don't expect me to fall for the same trick twice. I'm warning you." I won't be so easy to break, even without my wand."

Faith had gotten to her feet and was sporting a very visible bruise on her cheek. Harry could see that she was fighting to hold down her anger. Wanting to rub salt into the wounds, he just went on, "It appears the brute can keep her cool once in a while," he said mockingly. "Wouldn't want you freaking out and getting yourself hurt."

"The volume of calls being recorded coming into the local police station have increased ten fold since the first ones this morning at around 10:30 am. Local sources have reported that the STARS team has been mobilized." Meanwhile, Nemesis rampaged across the street and smashed up a car somewhere behind the field reporter.

"Jack! Fuck! Are you getting a feed of that?" asked the reporter, who whirled around and stared in awe at the sight of the carnage. Nemesis lifted up a human body with one hand and hurled his victim fifteen feet so that the body came crashing down on top of Rosalind, the reporter. "Gah!" she cried out. "Jack!"

However, Jack didn't seem to be faring any better as gunshots were fired somewhere to the side and his head was partly caved in by a zombie. Moaning sounds were coming in through the television and Jack let out a momentary gurgle, his hand flailing uselessly in front of the camera before going limp. Blood spurted across the camera lens, appearing on the screen just before the feed was cut out, returning to the anchorman sitting behind a desk in a news studio somewhere. The anchorman looked rather discombobulated, and took a moment to begin speaking. "Er, well, as you can see, the situation has been degenerating throughout the day..."

"Why you little!" Faith lunged at Harry, who simply apparated from where he sat, coming to crouch artfully near the television screen. Faith, not having expected that, had overbalanced and went crashing to the floor on the other side of the bed. "YOU BASTARD!" she cried out, climbing to her feet and looking wildly about for her prey. In her fury, she grabbed the remote control and hurled it at Harry, who simply apparated right next to her, the remote control impacting against the television screen and shattering the glass in a fit of sparks. He batted her with both his wings, and sent her tumbling back onto the bed, from which she sprang up and sent a vicious punch at Harry's head, only to miss as he apparated yet again.

"As exciting as this is," Harry said from the other side of the bed, "It's really not getting us anywhere. And all this apparating is getting hard on my leg."

"Well why don't you stop for a moment, then?" Faith growled, hurling herself at Harry, who simply apparated yet again.

"Not too bright, are you?" he asked, smirking.

Faith paused to appraise Harry for the first time. She took a deep breath and exhaled in a tai chi type attempt at meditation, before scrutinizing him. Finally, she asked, "What do you want?"

He stopped to consider the question, his gaze never leaving her. He cocked his head and said, "When I was fifteen months old, my parents were murdered by a dark wizard. A very evil dark wizard who called himself a Lord. He tried to kill me, but failed and instead, he was stripped of a body for a very long time. I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle. They thought I was a freak for being magical and ritually abused me for the last fifteen years of my life. They told me my parents were drunks who died in a car crash." Harry paused to collect his next few words. "A year ago, this dark wizard... this Lord came back. He murdered a classmate of mine right in front of my eyes and he tried to kill me. It was only by sheer luck, and my mother's love that saved me that night. And just a couple of months ago, one of his soldiers murdered my godfather. I came out here, because I need to learn to fight. I need to know that there's things worth fighting for in this world. I need to be able to stand on my own two feet, because, one day, I'm going to have to deal with this dark wizard once and for all. He'll never stop coming for me. I know that now. He'll hunt me down. He'll torture and kill everyone I care about. I don't really want that to happen." Harry paused a second time to gather his thoughts yet again. Eventually, he looked straight into Faith's eyes and said with a steely resolve, "You think you're better than me. You think you're tough. That you've been through worse, that you've handled more. Maybe that's true, but then again, maybe it isn't. I don't really care. If you don't want me hanging around, that's fine. I'll go my own way. You can do your thing, I'll do mine. But that doesn't mean I'm going to just take off and run home to England. Giles assigned me a task, and I'm here to see it through to the end. If you can't handle me being a part of it, then you and I will simply have to have a parting of the ways. I'm fine with that. At this point, I could care less either way. You've cost me enough with your posturing." Harry pointed to his leg.

Silence ensued, in which Faith spent a long time looking hard at the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry fully expected her to blow him off without really thinking about it, but she surprised him. Eventually, she said, "I'll admit, you're good to have in a fight. That disappearing trick can come in handy. I don't know nothing about you, and maybe I've assumed the worst. Still, I'd like to make this work. I'd hate to disappoint Giles."

Harry decided that that was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get for having been twice assaulted. He nodded. "Fair enough. I think it's time we make a plan."

Faith nodded. "Fine, but I don't know how you plan to get around with that leg of yours. The teleporting trick's cute and all, but even I can see that it's taking its toll."

Harry simply agreed. "Yes, you're right. And if I had my wand, I could fix it in a matter of seconds." Harry apparated back onto the bed, where he stretched out his legs and grabbed his rucksack, which he had charmed to be feather-light. He was just thankful he had decided to practice the interior expansion charm as opposed to the shrinking charm.

"What are you doing?" Faith asked curiously, as Harry reached his arm into his pack and pulled out a vial of a turquoise looking liquid.

Absently, he responded, "Witches and wizards have a magical core. It's a part of us. The wand is just a focus for us to express our magic. As you're no doubt aware, there's a number of things we can do without the aid of a wand. When we are agitated, often suffering from extreme emotional stress, like anger or panic, our magic will go wild and lash out in an attempt to satisfy our needs. Normally, we can't harness this power." Harry then held up the liquid so it caught the light of the sunrays slanting in through the window. "This here is a potion that expresses the deepest rage of the person who drinks it. By drinking it, it will, by extension, cause my magic to flare up in response and I will be able to command my magic wandlessly."

"Cool," Faith said. "How long does it last?"

"Five minutes."

"That's it?"

Harry uncorked the bottle and downed the substance. When he was done, he continued his explanation. "This potion is restricted and borderline illegal. The Ministry doesn't exactly want to deal with super-charged, hyper-angry wizards running around satiating their aggressive urges. Besides, prolonged use causes dementia and severe emotional trauma. Your body will start to think that you need to be constantly angry and will adapt by driving you to violent episodes." As an afterthought, Harry added, "It also can permanently endow you with wandless capabilities, since you'd become angry all the time. I have a suspicion the Dark Lord has either taken this potion to achieve that end or has drugged some of his servants with it. Bellatrix is practically insane, after all, and Voldemort has always been a bit of a nutter."

"So, er, aren't you going to, like, freak out, then?" Faith asked, suddenly a tad nervous. "I mean, if you're going to be all rageful and stuff, then maybe I ought to come back later."

Harry dismissed her worries with a wave of his hand. "Not a problem. I have studied a mind art called occlumancy and can compartmentalize my emotions sufficiently to work with the potion. I have only been using it to see whether I have any aptitude in wandless magic naturally. I've been using it to try and get a feel for how wandless magic works. Some wizards have the ability to do it somewhat. My skill with it is rather minor, sadly. I will stop speaking now. I need to focus and the potion is taking effect. Please do not talk to me for at least ten minutes."

"No problem," Faith said, turning to the television screen only to discover that snow was the only thing appearing. "Fucking sluts," she muttered irritably. "The whole Goddamned town's going to hell in a handbasket."

She waited a minute before her gaze finally fell on Harry. To her surprise, a blue glow was emanating around his leg, and she could see it visibly changing to become whole again. "Huh," she said, impressed. "Never saw Willow do anything that cool before."

"Is there anything you would like?" Harry inquired, startling her. When Faith turned to face him, she was distinctly unnerved by the electric glow that permeated his eyes.

"Er, like what?" she asked.

To demonstrate, Harry wandlessly conjured a razor-sharp scimitar, its long, curved blade glinting ominously. Harry then conjured a ruby and set it in the pommel. He then conjured a sheath and guided the blade into it. Once he was done, he moved the blade to Faith and rested it before her.

"Consider it a gift," he said smirking. "I could have conjured you a bouquet of roses, but the rage in me is bent on focusing my intentions towards violent things."

"Wow," Faith said, drawing out the scimitar. "Wicked. This thing for real?" She swished it around experimentally.

"Be careful," Harry said. "I enchanted it to be magically sharp."

Faith's only response was a dazzling smile; possibly the first genuine moment of happiness she expressed since his time with her. It made Harry pleased.

"I do believe, Mr. Potter, that it's time we do a bit of hunting."

By the time the potion had worn off, they were all set to begin their foray into the seedy underbelly of Raccoon City.

It had not taken Dawn and Xander long to locate a sporting goods store. Half the town seemed to be flocking to any place that could supply them with firearms. Spending some time in the presence of so many jittery people, Dawn and Xander came to learn that more and more deaths were occurring in the mountains. Maulings, they said. Humans being found torn up, ripped apart, their limbs scattered as far as fifty feet from their bodies.

It did not bear thinking about, since the two of them had actually spent a fair bit of time in the last week or so traipsing about those very same mountains.

They had actually expected that they would have had to have stolen the guns, but, given the palpable, overwhelming fear that permeated the city, the store owner, a greying overweight fellow in his fifties waived all the registration and precautionary requirements. It didn't hurt that a pair of women, upon exiting the shop, were promptly attacked and eaten before the very eyes of all the inhabitants.

It was Xander who articulated the thing that now stalked the streets of Raccoon City. It was he who gave name to the horror. "Zombies."

It hadn't hurt that he had actually tangled with the undead once previously, when they had attacked Buffy's house searching for some old mystical artifact.

It was a testament to the confusion that everyone in the store accepted his assertion.

Before Dawn and Xander made it to the front of the cue, zombies crashed through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows that lined the front of the store. Everybody screamed, and, in the resulting pandemonium, sweat and limbs oozing up out of the chaos, the zombies were able to draw first blood. Mounds of flesh of all kinds were feasted upon, before the frightened civilians organized enough for a few to begin firing back.

Dawn, horrorstruck, cringed and clung to Xander, who was already getting his bearings straight after seeing a zombie fling himself at an older gentleman with white hair and a polo shirt and shove its thumbs into the man's eye sockets, before biting into his jaw and ripping up tendons and muscle. The zombie then bashed its head against the man's skull with enough force to crack it open like a coconut, and then began drinking the fluids that dripped out and chewing on the brain meat.

Dawn stared in paralyzed terror, her body reacting autonomically to the jostling of bodies around her. It took her a moment to realize that Xander was no longer at her side, and instantly, she whirled around in search of him. For more than a while now, Dawn had come to see Xander as a source of comfort. Even more so than Buffy, her sister, in some ways. She could talk to Xander, like an equal. They were both outcasts, and Dawn could trust in that. There was kinship in their shared inferiority.

"Xander?' she asked aloud, her voice cut apart by the chaotic vectors of the background noise.

As two bodies disentangled themselves, Dawn caught a glimpse of his dark hair and his wrinkled plaid shirt towards the back of the shop, behind the counter. Xander was blatantly loading weapons, and Jenkins, the store manager, could hardly care less, instead aiming a rifle at the oncoming horde of zombies.

Dawn pushed her way towards the back, which was difficult, because most people were trying to go in that direction to get away from the massacre. Being smaller, she managed to pierce the shroud of humans and climb over the counter top to land next to Xander. Wordlessly, he handed her a .22.

"I've never fired a gun before," Dawn admitted sheepishly.

"Without taking his eyes off the rifle he was checking, he just said, "You're going to learn, Dawn. Real fast."

By now, the shop was filled with the deafening reports of gunfire, which momentarily drowned out the cries and the please and the whimpers of the shop's patrons. Dawn watched as Jenkins fired a rifle shot, which punched cleanly into the left shoulder joint of an oncoming zombie. The creature, whose face was already torn up by gunfire, staggered momentarily before continuing to advance. Jenkins was about to fire another shot, when Xander called out, "Aim for the head!"

Whether Jenkins was already planning to or whether he adjusted his aim on account of Xander's instructions, Dawn did not know. The rifle shot hit Donna Stewart right between the eyes, effectively halting her advance. Dawn watched, fascinated as Stewart's eyes rolled into the back of her head before she toppled over sideways.

"How'd you know that?' Dawn asked, as Xander was throwing a pistol to a nearby customer and grabbing another one off the rack.

"I've dealt with zombies before," he said simply.

"Can I help?" Dawn asked.

Xander stopped loading the .357 and looked at her sternly. "yes," he said. "Go kill a zombie. Find a suitable one that you can practice on."

Dawn scowled. "You can't be serious."

"Yes actually. We can't have you hesitating or forgetting how to take the safety off later on. I get the feeling this town's going to be overrun, which means that in about five hours, when it gets dark, we're going to be in a world of hurt, if we can't defend ourselves."

Dawn pursed her lips. Finally, she nodded and turned away to permit Xander to finish loading weapons and to go find a test zombie.

The trouble with the sporting goods store was that there were too many people still writhing about to get a clear shot, and Dawn wasn't prepared to chance hitting a 'normal' as she was starting to think of them. Staying behind the counter, she moved up next to Jenkins and peered out at one of the mauled victims. To her dismay, the victim began twitching, and, within a moment, was rising to its feet. Dawn had initially suspected that magic was at work, but, seeing this, her mind started screaming, PATHOGEN!

It was a disease. Not magical. Biological.

Dawn aimed her pistol, thumbed the safety as she had seen her childhood idol, Clint Eastwood do so many times in the movies, and then fired a round. The bullet missed completely, and Dawn almost lost her grip on the weapon as the recoil, which was admittedly rather minor for a .22, caught her off guard. The zombie seemed to understand that it had been targeted by Dawn, because it began shuffling towards her. There was something in its demeanor, in the dullness in its eyes that creeped her out. Dawn had seen all kinds of monsters before, and none of them could be called human. Vampires were notorious for having no souls, but they, despite all that, were still alive. These creatures, these zombies, on the other hand, lacked that basic level of cognition. It manifested itself in their ungainly limp, in the drool, in the way it moaned. Dawn fired another shot, and this time, she managed to catch the zombie right in the throat. She lowered her weapon fractionally, relatively confident that the pool of blood burbling out of its neck was a sure sign of its imminent collapse. The tang of copper assaulted her senses for the first time, despite the omnipresence of blood from other corpses. Perhaps it was because this was blood she had drawn. Her mind gave it special significance.

And the zombie kept coming. Dawn fired another shot, this one plunging into the soft flesh of its intestines, perforating its duodenum and exiting through one of its spinal discs. The creature stumbled but did not fall. It was at the counter now. Dawn took a nervous step back and fired again, this time at point blank range, right at the creature's face. Her entire body trembled as she pulled the trigger. The bullet caved in its nose and sinus cavities, but did not damage the brain sufficiently. Dawn fired another shot, and this one buried itself into the zombie's forehead. Again, it did not do enough damage. She fired again and again until the zombie finally collapsed. Dawn was shaking all over; her exposed skin covered in gooseflesh, her palms sweaty. She just stared at the creature, which was still twitching, but whose strength was clearly leaving it.

In the aftermath of her shots, Dawn realized that the store was eerily quiet. She looked around and saw that, out of the two dozen or so that had been in the shop previously, only five remained, not including herself and Xander. Jenkins had come from behind the counter and was surveying the litter of bodies with a critical eye. Dawn wondered if he had been a soldier at one time. The coldness, the calculation, the strange sort of professionalism in his eye seemed to suggest that he had been inured to the horrors of mutilated bodies.

"Boys," Jenkins said, glancing at his four compatriots. "I reckon it's time we go do a bit of hunting."

The others nodded, and Dawn recognized the steely determination in their eyes. No doubt they had lost loved ones here today. Possibly they had to put them down themselves.

"You kids best run along," one of them said, looking at Dawn and Xander, who had sidled up next to her.

"Yeah," Xander agreed. "I reckon we will."

"The end of the world is nigh, and all we can do is go but for the grace of God."

Armed to the teeth, the five men departed to go hunt zombies.

"How long do you reckon they'll last?" Dawn asked in the ensuing quietude.

"As long as they've got ammunition, I figure," Xander replied. "They're not the soft types."

"And us?" Dawn asked, glancing down at the zombie she had killed.

"That depends," Xander inquired. "Do you think you can handle something bigger than the .22?"

Dawn stared at the weapon in her hand. The instrument of death. She had grown accustomed to fighting with swords and axes and crossbows, and stakes. She couldn't claim to be that good at it, but she was competent enough. She had a fifteen percent chance of surviving an encounter with a vampire, and that was pretty good for a lay person. But guns were a whole other ball game. She didn't know the first thing about them. They felt funny in her hands, and her fingers already felt cramped from the recoil. Not that it mattered. Pain was a good thing in Raccoon City. It meant you were still alive. "I think I ought to take a .38," she said finally, looking up to fix her gaze on Xander.

He nodded and handed her a dual holster. "Hold onto the .22 as well, just in case." He also handed her a rifle, which she slung over her shoulder, while he himself took a fully automatic assault rifle, a .44 and more shells than they knew what to do with. They also then proceeded to fill their packs with ammunition, before heading out to find a restaurant, where they could pillage some food before returning to Umbrella's headquarters.

Harry and Faith made their way down the main street of Raccoon City. They didn't exactly have a specific direction in mind. Mostly, they just wanted to find some people they could talk to and from whom they could get some answers.

"Is it just me or is everything disturbingly quiet around here?" Faith asked, scouring about, idly making slashing motions with her new toy. She marvelled at its perfect beauty, for the first time truly appreciating the power that Harry wielded. The blade was long, but not too much so. It was light but incredibly sturdy and well-balanced. It was lethal with even a gentle stroke, and shone brilliantly in the golden firelight light of the setting sun. And it would never break, Harry had said, and it would never go dull. When he had told her these things, she had been incredibly skeptical.

"Oh yeah?" she had asked incredulously, and then, smirking, decided to test Harry's assertions. She took the blade and began sawing through the cement sidewalk, pouring as much of her strength into the slashes as she could muster without jeopardizing her control of the dangerous weapon. And, after ten minutes of hacking away at asphalt and cement and concrete, she had come to the conclusion that the blade was basically indestructible.

"But how?" she had asked, still in awe of the weapon.

It was Harry's time to smirk. "Magic, obviously, or haven't you been listening?"

faith just gave him a withering look.

Deciding to take pity on her, he began, "Look, I know it seems a bit weird. And to tell you the truth, I wasn't entirely sure the enchantments would work. I've yet to delve into the area. Mostly I was just experimenting."

"but if you can create weapons like these, who could possibly stop you?" she asked curiously, wanting to know more about Harry's supposedly fucked up world. "I mean, you can do anything!"

Harry just smiled wanly, the humour never quite managing to reach his eyes. "You forget, Faith. So can they."

At that proclamation, Faith went quiet, unconsciously shivering at the image of people far more powerful than Harry. "You could take over the world, couldn't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably, but to what end? Most of us can conjure whatever we want. There's no limit to the luxuries we can draw up for ourselves, provided we have the skill and the energy. Even the poorest wizard would never be driven to despondency. Their magic simply wouldn't let them. It's actually very hard to kill a witch or wizard. Our magic comes out at the most primal moments, flaring up to protect us. Even fatal injuries can be healed with relative ease. I can't tell you how many times I've had smashed up bones, or damaged organs or God only knows what else. And yet I'm perfectly fine, physically speaking. The only time you can really damage a wizard permanently is when you use dark magic. It's nature is to destroy, and when it hits, it stains you in a way that prevents even magic from healing you."

"Dark magic, eh?" Faith asked, curious about it. "I'd reckon that all magic's the same. Isn't it just the intent? I mean, sure you've got this killing curse thing, that you've been talking about, but how's it any worse than levitating somebody off a bridge?"

Harry nodded. "That's actually a very good question," he replied. "And, if you'd asked me last year, I wouldn't have been able to give you an answer." Harry paused for a moment, collecting himself and considering his answer. "Bellatrix Lestrange murdered my godfather a couple of months ago. I told you about this."

faith nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, I was very angry. I knew it was partly my fault that Sirius was dead. I had stupidly put him in danger. And I knew that if I had only been stronger, or faster or more collected, then maybe I could have done something to be more helpful. I mean, all I could do was stun the death eaters, and that was practically useless, since their associates would just continue to revive them. Not to mention the fact that some of them were really fast spellcasters, and had good aim. Well, one of them, this Bellatrix character, kept taunting me. She knew I wasn't really a match for her. She was just toying with me, telling me how weak and pathetic I was. She told me I wasn't going to get anywhere with her unless I used a real spell. A dark one. The darkest, in fact. It's known as the Cruciatus." Harry stopped walking and, now immersed in memories of that fateful evening at the DOM, just stood in the middle of the street staring off into the distance.

"What happened?" Faith prompted.

"The Cruciatus, is a pain curse, Faith. It causes the most horrible pain you've ever felt to go through you. I know, because I've been hit with it. It feels like a thousand hot knives cutting into you all at once, and it only gets worse with each passing second that you're exposed to it. Prolonged exposure would drive you permanently insane. It would fuck up your brain and nerves until you couldn't remember your own family or even talk properly. You would just twitch uselessly."

Faith took a moment to process Harry's words before continuing. In some sick part of her mind, she welcomed the prospect of taking a hit from this so-called dark curse. She wondered if it were really as bad as Harry claimed it was.

"You cast it on her?"

"I tried to," Harry admitted. "I wanted her to hurt the way I was hurting. The spell contacted with her, but it didn't really take hold. She told me it was because righteous anger didn't work. You couldn't fuel the spell with anything other than true malice." Harry then fixed his attention on Faith. "Dark magic eats away at you. It's like a drug. Dark spells are based on galvanizing yourself to feel negative emotions. It's dark because of what it requires to ignite the curse in the first place. Only the truly cruel people of the world can cast them. You can't cast the killing curse out of self-defense, or because you want to save a loved one from an evil person."

Faith nodded. Strangely enough, she understood. She had been dark too, after all. She had killed somebody, a human, had taken his life, and it had felt good. She had discovered, for all intents and purposes, dark magic. It had made her feel powerful. Again, she shivered.

The duo found themselves just outside the convenience store where Faith had procured their sandwiches. The sterile, antiseptic order that had defined the place earlier was now gone. Many of the shelves had collapsed, bottles cracked and plastic wrappers torn to shreds and drifting about in the aisles. There was a blood splatter across the till, and a criss-crossing of cracks in the glass wall.

"That looks shitty," Faith said, staring into the store.

From somewhere behind them, they heard the sound of a mournful moan, which immediately made Harry's hairs stand on end. He whirled around, his wings instinctively flexing about his body in order to act like a cocoon. For the thousandth time, he cursed not having a wand.

There in front of him were two zombies lumbering toward them. Their eyes were glassy and they looked hardly capable of standing on their own two feet, yet they plodded onward, swaying gently as though to some unknown breeze.

"Nhhhhh!" one of them moaned again.

Harry braced himself for attack, all the while looking around to see if anyone else was going to show up. Faith just shrugged and swung her sword into action. "I guess I'll take care of these thugs," she said, and deploying the powers bestowed upon her as the slayer, she went into overdrive. With one fluid upward stroke, she slashed the first zombie's outstretched hands off at the wrists. Blood spurted outward and splattered against the cracked asphalt. Though Faith had heard an account of a zombie from Harry and though she had dealt with a hunter in the mountains, she was still a bit unnerved by the lack of response that the loss of its hands caused the creature. Not even vampires were so mindless.

Going with the classic decapitation routine, Faith pivoted on one foot and roundhoused the first zombie in the chest while simultaneously cleaving its head with one swift stroke, the momentum sending the zombie's head clean into the head of its partner, causing the second one to stumble.

Harry could not help but admire Faith's skill, and was briefly disappointed that she was being pitted against such unworthy adversaries.

Out of curiosity, Faith took her blade and used its gentle curve like a hook to gut the second zombie. It's innards splashed uselessly around the roadway, and Harry noticed a partially digested mushroom. Fucker must've been turned while he was eating, Harry mused.

To Faith's dismay, the zombie seemed to slow but not stop. Deciding not to toy with it, she took its head off. and left it for dead.

"Ugh," she said, staring at the grossness on the ground.

"You're telling me," he agreed. "Is that gross or what?"

Just then, they saw a collection of a dozen or so ooze out from the shadows, their dull eyes orienting the zombies to Faith and Harry. Faith glanced to either side, searching for an exit, while Harry did the same. Both of them backed up against the convenience store as they were surrounded. Another five or so zombies seemed to materialize. "Fuck, there's like twenty of them," Faith breathed. "I'm not so sure about my odds with those numbers."

"Maybe we should get inside," he muttered. Just then, however, they heard the glass from the convenience store shatter, causing both of them to whirl around and spy another half dozen zombies, a couple of them picking themselves off the ground - the ones that had charged the plate glass window and had used their bodies to smash through it.

"I always did love a challenge," Faith said, bracing herself for the assault.

"No!" Harry said fiercely, his mind spinning to find an answer. "Not like this. You don't know if you'll survive." And then, in a burst of inspiration, Harry latched onto an idea. It was crazy and he had no clue where it came from, but he decided it might be worth a try. "Hop on," he commanded, catching Faith whirling her blade expertly and catching a zombie in the throat. Another one charged ahead and spat some sort of acid, which Faith instinctively ducked to one side rolling across the ground and slicing the zombie's legs off at the knees. However, she came too close to three zombies and, while parrying one and dodging the other, she fell directly into the line of the third, which clawed at her face. It didn't quite manage to gouge her, but it did make claw marks on her otherwise smooth skin.

"AARGH!" she cried out, swinging her blade and cutting the zombie in half. She managed to maim another one before she found herself being bitten in the ankle by the one whose legs she cut off. Forcing back the revulsion at seeing the creature crawling about on its elbows, she cut off its head while staggering back to avoid another blow, by yet another zombie, while, at the same time, cleaving a third one's arms off. She tripped over a corpse and came crashing to the ground wide-eyed. She could take four or five or even ten on at once, but twenty and being pincered was simply impossible. They were already cornering her, cutting off her room to move.

Vaguely, she heard the sound of something deep running through the cement, and she briefly wondered, "Hooves?"

Just then, she saw the white, iridescent form of the winged unicorn appear before her, its large body cutting an imposing figure against the zombies. It impaled one through the head with its horn before backing up and delivering a kick to a zombie behind him.

"Harry," she breathed, awed by the sight of him. Seeing him in full force while she herself was on the ground, made him look nothing short of impressive.

He paused for a moment to look down at her, his electric green eyes silently willing her to do something.

"Hop on," she mouthed, recalling Harry's last command. He batted a zombie that was leaning over her with one wing, sending it crashing into another one. Clearly, he could hold his own in his animagus form. At least for awhile. However, He was not able to kill the zombies properly with the exception of his horn, and they were still managing to close in, almost forming a kind of stalemate. One she was sure she and Harry would lose eventually. It didn't help that the four zombies she had killed had been replaced by still more.

Coming to her senses, Faith sprang to her feet, blade in hand and mounted the unicorn while delivering what would have been a lethal blow to a living being to the nearest zombie. Stop thinking of them as humans, she scolded herself. Cut them off at the neck, or don't bother at all. Gripping the unicorn's hair with one hand and readying her blade with another, she commanded, "Go, Ivory!"

The unicorn tried to turn its head around to give her an incredulous stare. Ivory? it asked silently.

Faith just shrugged. "Kind of fits, don't you think?"

Ivory returned its attention to the zombies, and then bucked, whinnied and charged forward, tucking its wings close to its body so that Faith could clear a path with her sword. The zombies tried to grasp at Ivory's body, and at Faith's legs, but the unicorn was notoriously fast, far faster than a horse, and broke through their ranks, stumbling only occasionally as its innate danger sense fused with Harry's uncanny reflexes to maneuver them through the growing crowd of zombies. Once breaking free, Ivory continued bolting as fast as he could, despite Faith's protest to slow down. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going, except that he suddenly longed for the rush of the wind, the feel of freedom under him. And, with that wish, Ivory instinctively unfolded his wings and beat a powerful downward stroke that lifted him a good four feet into the air, Ivory beating hard to maintain that sense of flight. After a couple minutes of gliding, Ivory gently descended back to the pavement, where he instinctively touched down with his hooves and slowed from a gallop to a canter to a trot.

"Whoa," Faith said, jumping off the unicorn before he came to a complete stop. "Wicked."

Harry transformed and stretched out the kinks in his back. "Jeez, lose a few pounds, why don't you?" he whined, not quite able to work out the soreness from where Faith had been sitting.

"Huh," she said, still eyeing Harry appraisingly. "And here I thought you were useless."

Harry shrugged. "I got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"Apparently."

Harry glanced around, wondering where exactly his mad flight had landed them.

"Seems to be the seedier part of town," Faith observed, following Harry's gaze.

The shops in the area had a decidedly run-down look. The asphalt was even less well-kept here, and all the buildings sported either grime, rust, broken glass, peeling paint or graffiti. "It would probably be best if we found cover," Harry said quietly in the descending dark. "We don't really want to be caught out here without any protection."

"Yeah," Faith agreed.. "I reckon we could try the police station. They've the best chance for surviving. We could maybe pilfer a pistol or two while we're at it."

Harry nodded. "These things don't seem to do too well with doors, either. If we could barricade certain points, we could maybe fortify an area. You know, create a safehaven."

"Yeah," Faith agreed. "That makes sense. Let's head to the cop shop and if we find something that looks like it would be good to turn into a fort, we'll investigate."

And with that tentative plan in place, the pair picked their way down the main street, all the while scanning their environment on all sides in search of threats.

Jill couldn't say she was surprised by the swift and efficient transformation of her once beloved hometown to the cesspool of re-animated corpses that it now was. The transformation couldn't have taken more than ten hours, she reckoned, and now, there was most likely less than one percent of the population still alive. And even those dwindling few would be cut off by morning. No doubt Umbrella was monitoring the entire situation via satellite. Probably with guards posted at all the major exits. There was a reason why the corporation chose a town beset by mountains to settle in. It limited the avenues of escape for their progeny.

Jill deftly picked her way through the back alleys and other dark, seedy places of Raccoon City. Not only was she a trained soldier, she was also experienced in zombie psychology and physiology. She had dealt with the fuckers before, after all, and it made her uniquely suited to survive in the extremely hostile environment. Maintaining a preternatural silence and keeping to the shadows, she crept down the darker areas of the town, where the paths were narrower, and where there were scalable pipes and various objects she could use for short-term barricades. The narrow alleys kept her from being overrun and if she found herself in a tight spot, she knew from experience that the best way to escape a zombie is to simply go up, or possibly just lock a sturdy door. There were plenty of those around as well. Most of all though, she knew that zombies tended to move towards where the action was, and since most people would be trying to use their cars and the main roads to escape, the zombies would naturally be drawn to those areas.

Damn, I wish I had a chain gun, she thought morosely. Or a rocket launcher. Ah, well, maybe I'll find one lying around.

If she were lucky, she would make it all the way to the police station, which was her destination. She figured that if there were any place that were safe, it would be there. Besides, she knew that place like the back of her hand, and she could already think of a number of good block off points to ward off intruders, not the least of which was the front door, which was made of reinforced steel. Most of all, she knew there was a grenade launcher stashed away, among other things, and the prospect of having one of those enticed her. As confident as she was about surviving zombies, she could not say the same if she ran across another one of Umbrella's more unusual experiments. Like the Tyrant. The mere memory of the bionic creature made her shiver. If it hadn't been for Brad... Well, Jill just tried not to think about that. She wondered how her fellow STARS members were carrying on in the middle of this crisis.

Had Barry made it out? Brad? Chris, of course, was enjoying slutting it up with Umbrella's money somewhere tropical, no doubt. Fucker.

Spying a gaggle of zombies up ahead, their grey, meaty, blood-stained faces illuminated by the harsh light of an incandescent, Jill immediately pressed herself into the shadows lining the wall of the brick building. She hoped it would be enough. It seemed so, for they did not target her. She took a moment to breathe and contemplate her situation. There was nothing immediately useful around her that she could use to dispatch or circumnavigate them. If her geography were correct, she was pressed up against Marshall's bar. She remembered it being a decent enough establishment, and, more importantly, she remembered that the guy had a shotgun. If anyone were going to come out of this nightmare unscathed, it would be him. Jill silently debated with herself over whether to go in and hunt down the weapon. It would be immensely helpful, she knew. The only problem was regarding what she would have to do to get it, or whether it was even there. Marshall would no doubt have taken it when he ran, assuming he got away. And if he didn't, then it stood to reason that there were zombies in the building.

Jill pursed her lips in frustration. Just go for it, girl, she told herself. It's not like you don't got a death wish, anyway. You know you can always pop a cap in your head before you go down. What's life without a little risk?

Jill waited patiently for a good minute to see if the more rational part of her mind would object. Apparently, it was taking a vacation, because no rebuttal came forward. Shrugging, Jill muttered, "What the fuck. Why not?"

She edged toward the back entrance and once there, gently tugged at the door. Usually, these things were locked up at night, but she doubted anyone would have the presence of mind to do that after the day's arduous events. She was in luck. The door unlatched and she edged it open ever so carefully. One eye scanning the alley, one eye peering into the hazy gloom of the kitchen. Seeing nothing, Jill skipped inside, letting the door shut ever so gently and whirling to check all her blind spots.

An electric bulb fizzled quietly at the far end of the room.

Nothing.

Jill let out a sigh and began inching toward the front of the pub. There were two things that were really important to understand about zombies. One, they were noisy fuckers. They did a lot of shuffling and moaning, and as such, with a little patience, you could almost always tell whether one was hiding around a corner. Second, they were slow as snail shit, and therefore, you almost never had to actually take one down, so long as you had the sense not to get pincered. Frankly, with

the whole town turned, she simply didn't have the firepower to mow them down.

A zombie appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. From the look of it, Jill could tell she must have been one of the servers. The creature had part of her face missing, as though she had been in the process of being eaten when she awoke. She lumbered forward, acidic drool dribbling down her chin, her arms outstretched as she lumbered toward Jill, who calmly led her around a large table. Once safely placing the table between them, Jill gave the table a mighty push. The table scraped against the ground slowly but surely, and the zombie was too stupid to understand what was going on. Eventually, before the zombie could fully process what was happening, an impossible task anyway, Jill had pressed the zombie into the pantry, its exit now blocked off by the large metal table. The zombie, of course, did not have the presence of mind to jump on top of the table or to simply crawl underneath. Jill, deciding it was an easy kill, grabbed a butcher knife and climbed over the table, inching her way forward so that she was tantalizingly close to her quarry. The creature began to flail her arms out more frantically as though that would somehow improve her chances of grabbing at Jill's flesh.

Jill just smiled. "You poor little thing," she mock cooed. "All dead and partially eaten. You must be in dire need of some rest. Here, let me help with that."

Jill took a vicious swipe with the butcher knife, effectively maiming one of its outstretched hands. The zombie recoiled just a little before pressing forward once more. Jill mangled its other hand, with the same fluid ease. Now, nearly defenseless, Jill reached forward and slashed its throat with her knife. The creature's eyes bugged out as it gurgled up blood. Clearly they didn't need to breathe, however, since the creature continued forward, now trying to gnaw at Jill futilely, even though blood was burbling out of its mouth. With a deft, forceful jab, Jill implanted the knife into the zombie's head with a downward, stabbing stroke. Its eyes rolled into the back of its head before it collapsed dead.

"Take that, you little freak," Jill said, satisfied. She crawled off the table and waited silently for the sounds of any other zombies. There were none, thankfully, and she proceeded to the main area, where, through the large front windows, she could see zombies milling idly about. Jill ducked below the counter to keep from being seen. Glancing about, she saw Marshall's mutilated corpse lying still on the ground. A great pool of blood had coagulated between its legs. And right there, next to it, was the infamous shotgun. Jill, forcing herself to remain mindful of the dangers, crept forward, her eyes always scanning, always searching for signs of movement. Was Marshall dead? Would he spring up at the last minute in a startling attempt to consume her flesh?

Apparently not. Jill retrieved the shotgun and a box of shells without incident. She made her way to the back alley once more, and continued along her way in pursuit of the police station.

Ada peered into the compound microscope, her mind half on the startling things she was seeing on the slide, and half on John, the brilliant, if somewhat reclusive scientist that had managed to steal her heart.

"How goes it?" John asked, coming up from behind and enfolding Ada in his arms.

"Mmm," she responded noncommittally.

"I'm sure you have more to say than that," he replied, puffing gently on the back of her neck. "I've seen those slides too. They're amazing."

"What are these people?" she asked. "It's like they're superhuman. The virus doesn't last five minutes in the bloodstream before its completely eradicated." Ada pulled her head back from the microscope and turned around to face her lover. "I mean, every other subject dies within hours. These people are immune to every known pathogen in existence."

"I'm sure you've noticed the flickers," John prodded.

Ada hesitated.

"You know what it is, don't you?"

Ada still did not respond.

John just sighed.

"It's just so preposterous! It defies everything we know of biology and chemistry and physics!"

John just nodded and twinkled his eyes infuriatingly. "Indeed, it does. And we're the ones who get to study it. I've been reading through the transcripts from the interrogation. The subjects indicate that they can teleport from location to location instantaneously. They call it apparation. I believe it's the same phenomenon we're observing at a cellular level. The blood cells are trying to apparate back to their masters."

Ada just shook her head. "There's so much to learn and we've only touched the iceberg, John. Until we amass more data - lots of it - we simply won't have any idea how to build a theory for this stuff."

John gently stroked her auburn hair. "We'll build a theory the same way Bacon and Pasteur and others who came before us did. We'll do it one little bit at a time."

"I can't even begin to count the number of scientific revolutions this will cause. We could be on the cusp of solving every major world problem there is. Hunger, war, natural disaster, disease..." Ada's voice just trailed off into nothingness, her fervor dissipating, as if even she couldn't quite bring herself to believe her own words. Because, as they both knew, somewhere in the back of their minds, the price of belonging to the elite cadre of scientists and researchers that were funded by the most powerful industrial military cartel on the planet meant that their work would be geared for one purpose and one purpose alone: killing things. Their willful ignorance, their complicity, was a sin that would, one day, catch up to them.

However, that day was not today, and they just continued about their business.


	5. The Police Station

Chapter Five

The Police Station

Fucking dogs, Jill thought irritably. She kicked an empty garbage can onto its side and used it as a makeshift barricade. It had the effect of walling her off in a narrow alleyway littered with flickering shadows, but it also meant that the mutant dogs would have a bit more difficulty getting at her.

It had taken Jill longer than she had expected to make her way to the police station. Night had fallen, and she had barely managed to scrape together any food. The persistent hunger made her feel shaky, and she had to take a moment every so often to calm her nerves with a simple meditation technique. She'd only run across zombies so far, which she counted as a major blessing, though she had not been oblivious to signs of more dangerous predators lurking about. At one point, she had found a twisted chunk of corrugated steel, and she had not been able to identify any signs as to what could have maimed the chunk of metal. No explosions, no large trucks. Nothing except a lot of splattered human blood that had turned brown and cracked on the cement. Now she was in yet another back alley, this time only two streets away from her second home, and she had run across mutant dogs, with their maimed faces, and tendrils of bloodless flesh hanging off their cheeks in strips. Their mouths twisted into a perpetual snarl, the scent of human blood drifting off their muzzles.

And she had only eight rounds left on her pistol and two rounds on her shotgun. That was enough to get past four, maybe five zombies, if she were lucky. The dogs were scrambling at the side of the garbage can and making growling noises. Jill had propped the can up with a couple of pieces of torn piping, so that the dogs couldn't simply roll the barrel backwards. Satisfied that they were sufficiently walled off, Jill turned around and began jogging on the balls of her feet, still feeling vulnerable knowing that killer dogs were behind her somewhere. The alley ended in a brick wall, but that didn't trouble her. There was a door to one side, and a sewer grate. She took the former, noticing with dismay that the dogs had taken a running leap and had crossed the barricade, and were now charging her. Throwing caution to the winds, Jill yanked the door open and threw herself inside, slamming the door shut behind her just as the first dog reached it. The distinct sound of their claws scraping at the metal could be heard, though she resigned herself to ignore it and instead turn her attention to the contents of the room.

Fortunately, the room was well lit, and appeared empty. It looked to be some sort of a stock room for a larger supply store. There were counters along the far walls and one down the middle of the room, and they all had knickknacks of various kinds. Nothing terribly useful, save for a gun clip, which she made her way towards and retrieved. Sniffing the air, she detected the scent of copper and, with a sudden tenseness, Jill glanced about the room searching for the sight of blood. There was nothing. I swear, she thought, if another goddamned zombie jumps out of another goddamned closet, I'm going to start freaking out.

Jill proceeded to move about the room cautiously and methodically searching for any hiding spots. When she rounded the corner of the aisle counter, she stopped in her tracks. There, sitting on the ground, his eyes closed, was Brad. He looked to be sleeping and was breathing shallowly. A quick assessment of his form, and Jill could tell that he had been roughed up pretty badly. One broken arm, and a multitude of cuts and abrasions.

"Brad?" Jill asked tentatively, her hand still gripping her gun. "Brad?" she asked more loudly.

Brad suddenly let out a wet cough, that sent mucus dribbling down his chin. He glanced up and stared owlishly at Jill, as if not believing that she were really there. "Jill?" he asked finally.

"Yeah, it's me. Jesus, you look like shit. What happened?"

Normally, Jill would have expected Brad to let out a short, barking laugh, but it seemed that all he could do was muster up a wan smile. "You know, the same shit as always, Jill. Same shit as always." He then leaned his head back once more and closed his eyes.

Part of Jill wanted to comfort her colleague, and part of her just wanted to pump him for information and then take off. It was hard, she reflected, mustering up care for others when things were so bad. Still, looking at him, Jill couldn't help but feel a sense of overwhelming sadness. Chances were, neither of them were going to survive this mess. If it were just zombies, Jill could have had more hope, but given that there were probably more dangerous creatures lurking about, and, given that Umbrella was waiting just outside the city perimeter... Well, she thought, you can give up any time. Take comfort in that and keep on going.

Jill then proceeded to kneel and used a nearby napkin to wipe off the excess blood from Brad's skin and face. He looked incredibly tired, and pale, and she understood acutely.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"No problem," she replied softly.

"Do you reckon we could maybe just wait here for help to arrive?" Brad asked, though Jill could detect the weariness and the hopelessness in his question.

"Come on," she said as gently as she could. "We need to get moving."

"Where?" Brad asked.

"I figured the police station would be a good start."

Brad visibly trembled at Jill's words. He opened his eyes and gazed fixedly at her, as if trying to communicate the horror of what she was suggesting. Finally, he said, "You can't go there."

"Why not?" Jill asked, though she had a pretty good idea why not. "Has it been overrun?"

Brad shook his head. "I don't know. You'll never make it inside. It was all I could do to retreat."

"What was it?" Jill asked intently. If she were going to beat it, she had to know what it was. "Was it dogs?"

At this, Brad did in fact laugh. "No, Jill. Not dogs."

"Jesus fuck, Brad. What is it?"

"It's a zombie."

Jill just raised an eyebrow. "A zombie?"

"A super-zombie."

"Uh-huh," Jill said, still skeptically. "A super zombie."

Brad nodded.

"Well," Jill said, sighing and getting to her feet. "It's not like we've got much choice. I mean, it's either sitting around here waiting to either starve to death, to be eaten by zombies or for Umbrella agents to kill us off. I'm not exactly their number one fan."

Brad smiled. "Yeah, I reckon you're not."

"You coming?" Jill asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

"I'm sorry, Jill. I just - I can't go out there. Not yet."

"S'okay, Brad." Don't judge him, she told herself. We all deal with things in our own way. "Listen, if I get help, or if I take out this super zombie, I'll come back for you. All right?"

Brad nodded. "Thanks, Jill."

"Don't mention it. Try not to die on me while I'm out."

"I'll do my best."

With those terse last few words, Jill headed out the exit on the far wall, which opened into a courtyard adjacent to the RCPD parking lot. Almost there, she thought. She was sure she could at least score a grenade launcher from the locker room. Then she could see about hunting down this so-called super zombie.

The courtyard was unusually quiet. The RCPD parking lot fed into a main road, where she could see cars banged up and dead bodies littering the street. She was surprised then, that there were no zombies loitering about. It seemed like a particularly good spot for them, given that it was a fairly open, well-trafficked section of the town. Especially with all the police activity. Maybe the cops gunned them down, she thought hopefully.

Taking care to survey all the darker corners of the lot, where the pools of lamplight were not shed, Jill made her way to the front gate, which, to her dismay, had been smashed apart. The padlock lay broken ten feet away and one of the wrought iron gates was hanging off one hinge. Right, she thought. No zombie and no dog could have done that. Still, seeing that the windows of the police station were still intact, which was a good sign the station hadn't been overrun, Jill pressed onward. She was only fifteen feet from the door now anyway.

"You know, getting to the police station actually requires that we know where it is," Harry pointed out.

"No shit, Sherlock," Faith replied, scanning the area. They had debated over whether to lurk about in the alleys or to take the main road, and had finally decided on the latter, confident that they could outrun any obstacles that tried to hem them in, and because they figured it would be faster walking down the main road, which Faith believed bisected the town into two neat halves. They'd also hoped they could find some Raccoon City residents, but that was proving to be a more difficult task than they had realized.

"If there's going to be any of them still alive, they'll be holed up somewhere waiting for help to come," Harry lectured, always scanning the street for threats.

"What makes you say that?" Faith asked.

"That's what they always do in the movies," Harry responded. "Haven't you ever seen Night of the Living Dead?"

Faith rolled her eyes. "Leave it to the experts, kid."

"Besides, it's what I'd do."

Faith and Harry came across a tattoo parlour that looked relatively well kept. There were no broken windows, no blood stains around the entrance. It also looked like the owner lived on the second floor, which would have been a pretty good bolt hole.

"You reckon we should go in?" Faith asked.

Harry nodded.

The door was locked, obviously, and was made of glass. Neither of them were particularly inclined to break it open, because it would undoubtedly attract the local undead population. "Any chance you could just magic it open?" Faith asked. Harry considered it for a moment, and then, lighting on an idea, disapparated into the interior of the shop, wherein he undid the latch and opened the door.

"Nice,' Faith commented, before closing and locking it.

"Yeah, it's pretty handy."

"Funny that," Faith mused, as they scoured about for signs of a brawl.

"What?" Harry asked in the quietude.

"You can disappear and reappear at will without a wand. And you can do it through solid objects."

"Yeah, so?"

Faith just shrugged. "I guess I don't really understand why you can't do other things without a wand. It's all just magic, right? And besides, teleporting like that can't be any easy feat. Surely if you can do that, you can do things that are easier."

"You'd think so," he said, nodding. "It's possible. When kids are upset, they do all kinds of things. Accidentally, even. Once I blew up my aunt Marge. Turned her into a balloon so that she floated up to the ceiling."

"She couldn't have been too happy about that," Faith mused.

It was Harry's turn to shrug. "She was obliviated, so it's not like she'd remember it."

The pair went up a narrow flight of stairs, the floorboards creaking ominously. They exchanged a glance as they heard some movement from the darkness that spread over the top floor. "Hello?" Faith called. "Is anybody there?"

Deciding to take no chances, Faith took the lead and crept ever closer. Harry, meanwhile, was contemplating Faith's words about wandless magic. Hadn't Lupin conjured a blue flame wandlessly in his third year? Harry was pretty sure the werewolf wasn't anything special magically speaking. He didn't radiate that sense of energy that Dumbledore and Voldemort did. Concentrating, Harry focused his mind on conjuring a blue flame. He felt himself steadily disappearing into a meditative trance, much like he did with occlumancy, and, when he opened his eyes, he saw a faint glow emanating from a flame no larger than that of a matchstick, resting comfortably in the palm of his hand.

"FUCK!" Faith shouted from somewhere ahead of him. His concentration broken, the flame disappeared and Harry hastily dashed up the stairwell in search of her.

"Wha-?" he asked, bursting into a small bedroom. A lamp was lit and Harry could see Faith mercilessly hacking away at the remains of a zombie, its severed hand still twitching ominously.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Fucker jumped out at me from the closet," she said, her eyes blazing with fury. For good measure, she stabbed the torso of the zombie one last time, her blade puncturing its left kidney.

Harry could now make out a nasty pair of claw marks on Faith's face. Oblivious of Harry's scrutiny, she spat on the zombie's head before turning around and stalking out of the room to go back downstairs.

Harry glanced around the small room, taking in the sight of it. All in all, he thought it was a rather cozy place, and it made him suddenly sad, to see just how deeply the darkness of humankind had reached into the lives of these people. He then apparated downstairs and found Faith washing the cut out in a large basin. "You okay?" Harry asked tentatively. He had gotten the feeling that Faith didn't like touchy feely questions, but he wasn't really sure what else to say.

"Yeah," she said. "This place just creeps me out. That's all."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I get that too. It's like we're no longer in Kansas anymore."

"Yeah," Faith agreed, uncharacteristically somber. It was a side to her that Harry found discomfiting. "Come on. Let's keep moving."

It was not long before they managed to come upon a crashed police cruiser and a pair of zombie police officers, who, after dispatching, were ransacked for all their identifying information. Some of which included a little more information on the whereabouts of the mythical police station.

Harry was glad for it, because, after Faith's bout of unease at his magical powers, she began peppering him with questions, though it seemed to have to do more with filling the silence than any real curiosity on her part.

"So can you teleport other objects as well?" Faith was asking.

No matter how many times Harry tried to correct her and tell her the proper term was apparating, she refused to adopt it, and Harry had begun wondering if she were being purposely obtuse. He responded by saying simply, "No."

"Why not?"

"Ain't got a bloody clue."

"But you can teleport the things on you, like your clothes and stuff."

"Yeah, well, they're on me," Harry responded, somewhat defensively. Truthfully, he had no clue what the bounds of apparation were. He knew there were more advanced forms than simply disappearing and reappearing. He himself could only do line of sight apparation and apparation to familiar places. He also had a relatively narrow radius for his apparating zone. He guessed it was about four kilometres, which was enough for dodging Death Eaters. He also knew that people could learn combat apparation. he had seen Dumbledore slip out of an apparation and into a duelling stance at the DOM. Most wizards and witches didn't learn apparation sufficiently to not have a half second of disorientation on either end of the transport. Not to mention most of them were as loud as gunshots, whereas Dumbledore's was perfectly silent.

Eventually, he supposed those things would come in time. He suspected that a lot of it was born out of live combat situations, where you either learn to fire a spell on apparation or die trying. Not that Harry could fire shit without his wand. Not for the first time, he felt acutely vulnerable without it, and Harry was coming to resent that feeling. If all it took to incapacitate him was a simple disarming charm, then what did it matter how powerful a stunner he had? He still couldn't defend against more than one or two death eaters at a time. Two to put him on the defensive and one to catch him from behind.

Shaking himself from his downward mood spiral, Harry focused his attention on the looming sight of the police station that stood inlaid in the gentle upward slope of a hill. From where they stood, they could see the wrought iron gate and the ornate entrance beyond.

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Harry asked.

"Faith peered about in the darkness carefully. From what she could tell, there was something definitely wrong.

"I've spent a lot of time hunting vamps," Faith remarked casually. She swerved sharply so that she was now walking off to one side, Harry having to do a double-take to catch up. She continued speaking when Harry sidled up next to her once more. "After a while, you get to learn where to expect a vampire, what kinds of places they like to hang out at. Eventually, if you live long enough, you learn that there's two kinds of situations where you need to be especially wary. One, if there's more than the usual number of them about, and two, if there's none at all."

"What does it mean?" Harry asked, screwing up his face in contemplation. He couldn't understand what would unify those two things together, though, when Faith didn't elaborate, he pondered the question harder. He tried thinking about it in terms of his own experiences. He remembered the spiders fleeing from the castle in the second year, and he remembered Bellatrix Lestrange fleeing from Dumbledore. He remembered death eaters flocking to their master at the end of the tournament. And then it hit him. "When there's a bigger predator around."

Faith just nodded, motioning for Harry to be silent as she took a running leap and vaulted herself over a brick wall. It appeared that Faith wanted to scout out the area circuitously before approaching the front gate of the police station. Harry could hardly fault her on her logic, but it did leave him in a rather awkward position. He was not confident he could apparate to the other side of the wall without splinching himself and he was unable to jump the wall the way Faith had done. He was also not inclined to ask Faith for help. It was bad enough she saw him as dead weight already. If he slowed her down, she might be liable to get violent. Determined not to fail, Harry took a running leap, hoping his magic might kick into gear and give him the little extra push he needed to latch onto the top. It didn't happen. However, he noticed with more than a little curiosity, that, as he jumped, his wings had unfolded instinctively, and they had held him aloft for an extra second before gently landing him back on the ground.

Whoa, he thought, enjoying the moment of weightlessness. It was almost as though he could taste the freedom that he had always enjoyed from playing Quidditch. Harry then glanced speculatively at his wings, and a crazy thought began to form in his mind. He knew that the magic of the Pegasus allowed it to fly, lightening the body enough so that the wings could carry the horse's body. It was the same magic that the phoenix used to carry heavy loads, and Harry wondered if it were possible for him to do that here, even in his human form. The Hermione side of his brain immediately tried to speak up and tell him that it was impossible, but he swiftly and ruthlessly clamped down on that thought, if, for no other reason that some of Faith's earlier questions were starting to make him doubt his own education. Things weren't adding up, and he didn't like it.

Harry took ten steps back, steeled his nerve and took another running leap, this time slipping into a light meditative trance and letting his unicorn instincts guide his body into executing the necessary downbeat of his wings. Harry felt himself propelled up and up and up, the distinctive trickling feeling like water being poured over his head infusing his being as he leapt the eight feet clean over the brick wall, and, to his horror, came down fast and furious towards the ground below. Snapping out of his trance, Harry gave another beat of his wings, which jerked him to a stop in mid-descent, before letting him coast to the dewy earthen floor where his feet gently touched down. Whoa, he thought again, blinking away himself from his reverie and taking in his surroundings. Faith had walked up and down the narrow path from the street, obviously having been convinced that an attacker was lurking in the shadows.

Coming up next to him, she gave him a short nod of acknowledgement, and then knelt down to stare at the dirt. She pointed at it, clearly intending to show Harry something. He squinted down, but did not see the significance.

"It's a footprint," Faith explained, her voice still tinged with derision at Harry's poor tracking skills. "Whatever it is, it's big. I reckon it's ten feet tall. That, or it's got a bad case of acromegaly."

"Uh huh," Harry agreed, squinting even harder at the dark earth and not really seeing the footprint. Not that he was surprised entirely. Faith's vision was as phenomenal as her strength.

Faith jumped back suddenly, almost knocking Harry over, and before he could process what she was doing, he heard the whistle as her sword cut through the air, followed by a distinct squelching sound. Looking down at the shrubbery, Harry saw a worm, maybe four feet in length, now cut in half, its gaping maw revealing razor sharp fangs. Faith just stared in horror at the creature, as both halves wobbled and then began slithering away.

"Goddammit," she breathed. "This place just gets creepier and creepier."

Harry nodded. "I can't wait 'til we're out of here."

They trekked onward, taking care to stay to the footpaths in case any other deadly worms chose to make themselves known. Together, the pair ambled up the side of the brick wall so that they were now approaching the main entrance. Both of them were acutely aware that it was an obvious place for a trap. The open space between the gate and the front door was about eight metres by eight metres, with only one narrow path to the side. The gate dragged along the ground, making it slow to open, and the front door was reinforced steel, again, making it difficult to open. However, the only place where Faith and Harry could think an attack would come from would be the path they were now traversing.

"You reckon we should step into the spotlight?" Harry whispered.

"Yeah, why not? Nothing like imminent death to turn a girl on."

However, before either of them had time to move, the front gate swung open, to both their surprise. "Someone else," Harry whispered excitedly. "Excellent. We can team up."

The newcomer was a woman, slender, fit, carrying a gun, short, cropped brown hair. She was particularly alert, which was a good thing, but there was no uniform, so Harry wasn't sure whether she was actually a cop. She had the sense to leave the gate open, at least, which meant that at least intuitively, she understood that something was not right.

Faith was about to come forward when Harry stayed her with a hand. "Don't," he commanded in a whisper, and Faith, who normally did not take orders, complied, because there was a steeliness in his tone that she could not ignore. "We'll catch the critter by surprise." Preferably in the back."

It happened at the point where Jill was halfway to the front entrance. Between Jill and them, a dark form materialize, accompanied by a deep rumble in the stone. Harry blinked rapidly to clear away the surprise and then realized only after a second that the thing had jumped down from some height. Glancing upward, he could only assume that it had done so from the roof of the building, because he could see no other structure where the creature could have hidden. And the roof was pretty high. That fall should have broken its legs, Harry mused.

They both heard the flat crack of gunfire, and, seeing that it clearly did not fell the creature, which, to Harry's relief, was at least humanoid. No worm monsters yet, he thought grimly.

However, before they pushed forward, another figure darted through the open gate, calling out, "JILL! NO! LOOK OUT!"

The creature turned to face this new threat, and now, with its back no longer turned to them, they could see it in profile. It seemed to recognize Brad and said in a throaty growl, "Stars."

Harry noticed that Jill visibly paled at this, while Brad just looked grim.

"Brad!" Jill called out.

"Just go, Jill!" he said, clearly resigned to his fate.

Jill brandished her pistol, but Brad had already drawn out an automatic submachine gun and was already laying into the creature. Even Harry, who was no expert on weapons, could tell that firing it was taking its toll on Brad, who was backed up against the gate, his whole body bent around the thing to endure its impact. He's got a broken arm, Harry mused.

Jill, glancing between the two, marshaled her resolve and began firing rounds at the creature's head.

The deafening report of gunfire, which surely should have brought zombies from across the town, was having zero impact on the hulking figure. Brad just continued unloading his clip into the belly of the beast, as it took three slow, purposeful strides forward, so that it was standing right in front of him. Then, as if out of amusement, it just stood stock still, waiting for Brad to run out of gunfire, which was inevitable. Jill had run out of pistol rounds and shotgun rounds, and was now searching futilely for another weapon.

"Come on," Faith said. "We've got to do something."

Jill had taken a loose pipe and hurled it at the creatures head, but again, it did nothing more than thunk flatly against its skull before falling to the ground.

"Jill, go,' Brad said.

"I'm sorry," Jill lamented, before turning away from Brad and dashing into the station.

"Stars," rumbled Nemesis once more.

"Fuck this shit," Faith said, her Gryffindor tendencies getting the best of her. She hefted her blade so that she was holding it by the tip. Careful not to prick herself, she hurled it with inhuman grace, so that it spun through the air like a throwing dagger, whereupon it impacted with the creature's bald, dark head. The point of the blade barely nicked it before falling to the ground. All the creature's attention was on Brad, who tried to dodge out of the way of a swipe of his hand, but he only managed to get caught by the throat and then lifted into the air.

Faith charged forward and Harry apparated so that he was right behind Nemesis. And then, he realized with sinking horror, that he had no clue what to do. Fuck me, he thought disgustedly, feelings of ineptitude sweeping through him.

Faith, on the other hand, had picked up her sword and made a vicious slashing motion against Nemesis's wrist, where she hoped he was weakest. Brad was futilely struggling against its iron grip.

Her sword, however, only scratched his leathery, reptilian skin. Without even looking in her direction, Nemesis shot out a hand and swatted her away like a bug, sending her crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.

Harry dashed over to her side, but she was already getting up and whirling like a firestorm, delivering a roundhouse to Nemesis's hip, which left an imprint of her shoe against his skin, but did not even cause him to budge.

Nemesis then promptly threw Brad's lifeless body to one side and turned to face his two would-be attackers.

"Stars," he said once more in his ominous rumble, before charging at Harry, who had picked up the sword and was trying futilely to shove it into Nemesis's back. Harry ducked out of the way but was not quick enough to avoid a punch to his head. Fortunately, his wings contracted around him, effectively cocooning him and softening what would surely have been a brain damaging blow.

"Motherfucker!" Faith shouted, bodychecking the creature full force, and then trying to shove him over in the hopes of knocking him onto his back.

But Nemesis was either too strong or too heavy, or some combination of the two, and instead just whirled around and picked Faith up off the ground, and proceeded to strangle her, much as he had done with Brad. Faith, however, was significantly stronger than Brad, and was able to pry his fingers loose with all her considerable strength, so that Nemesis, seeing she was slipping from his grasp, threw her at the last second against the ground.

He advanced on her once more, and this time, when she got up, streams of blood were spilling down her face, and she was distinctly disoriented. It was at that moment that Ivory made its appearance. Whinnying a battle cry, Ivory charged forward with all the momentum it could muster, which was significant given its magical energies, and headbutted Nemesis in the chest, just as it was turning about to face this new threat. Having both sizeable mass and momentum on its side, Ivory managed to knock Nemesis backwards and flat onto his back. Not wasting a second, Harry transformed and began yanking on Faith's arm, dragging her toward the police station. "Come on," he urged. "Goddammit, Faith!" Nemesis was already getting to his feet, and, seeing this, Faith snapped out of her stupor and followed Harry, deftly and fluidly opening the door, letting Harry and herself inside and managing to close it before Nemesis could follow them in.

Both of them fell backwards as the steel buckled under each thump of the monster's fist.

"Holy fuck," Faith whispered, still staring wide-eyed at the doorway. Neither of them were sure whether the doors were going to hold against its relentless onslaught, and neither were particularly interested in finding out. They both scrambled to their feet. Harry was sporting a slightly bent wing, from where Nemesis had struck him. He touched it tentatively, and winced. Fuck that better not be broken, he thought. Faith was decidedly worse. There were deep bruises around her throat and her face looked like it was on the receiving end of a giant monster's fist, which was, precisely what it had been on the receiving end of.

Faith limped over to the front desk, which, unsurprisingly, was deserted.

""We should find Jill," Harry said, nervously biting his lip. Faith seemed to be lost in her own little world, and he remembered the last time he had interrupted her ruminations. She had almost killed him.

"Faith?"

"I'm fine," she said, taking a deep breath.

"Faith-"

"I'm fine," she cut in, this time more severely. "I'm a slayer. My injuries-" she pointed to her face and her leg, "they'll heal soon enough." Faith rooted around the front desk in search of a weapon. She found a pistol, but the clip had been taken out. "Jill must have ransacked this place before us."

"We should find her," Harry said again.

Faith whirled around, and glared at Harry, the silence hanging heavily between them. "And how, pray tell, do you expect us to defend ourselves?" she asked in clipped, icy tones.

"Er-"

"If you hadn't noticed, our only weapon, that fucking sword, is now hanging outside with the uber-freak." Faith slammed her fists down on the desk. "Fuck ass."

The pounding had, by now,, ceased, and Harry wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing. Was there another entrance to this place? Probably. One which was probably not so well fortified. Like the windows. Bloody hell, Harry thought, reflecting on just what a bad idea coming to the police station had been. They were now both roughed up, had a psycho on their tail, and were short one weapon.

"Listen, Faith, we've got to get moving. It doesn't matter about other creatures. We need to find a way to defend ourselves. That thing could get in here at any moment."

"Don't you think I know that?" she flared once more. "What the fuck do you expect us to find here that's going to take that thing on? Hmm? You saw what it did. We'd be lucky to find a machine gun in this place, and look how well that worked. God, we're so screwed."

Harry, now pissed off himself, walked up to Faith and slapped her across her face. "Get a fucking grip," he said venomously. "Look at yourself. You're freaking out at the slightest bit of danger."

"Slightest bit of - you -"

Harry slapped her once more and deftly apparated out of her way, as he was certain a ruthless punch would be administered. Faith, not having expected that, overbalanced in midstrike and staggered forward.

"Aren't you supposed to be some kind of an expert? What kind of professional are you?" Harry asked scathingly. All elements of taunting were gone in his tone. Now he was just scornful. "We've had it pretty lucky so far, you know. That creature could have turned us into pulp. You and I are both still alive, still with no broken bones. We're safe for the moment. We've got a potential ally in this very building, and you're wasting all our precious time moping about how you got your ass kicked by an eight foot tall thug."

"Nine feet," Faith muttered sulkily.

"Nine feet, whatever," Harry said, waving her words away with his hand. "I'm going," Harry pointed to a door on the far wall. "You can come with me if you want. It's your call, Faith."

Harry began walking, acutely aware of the silence behind him. He had never been very good at consoling women, and he had never tried consoling men. He wasn't entirely sure which strategy would work best on Faith, and he wasn't sure how he was going to take his scorn. She'd had a holier than thou attitude since they'd met, and even now, it hadn't really gone away. By the time he reached the door, he felt Faith approach, his unicorn sense alerting him to her presence. It occurred to him for the first time that Faith was not a nice person. He had assumed, somehow, even after her attempted murder of him, that because she worked on the light side, that she herself was light. Having dealt with Snape for so long though, Harry should have known that it was a dangerous assumption to make. Faith was a bitch, and a psycho, and, oddly enough, that realization gave him comfort. As much as he loved the Rons and Hermiones of the world, he didn't really trust them to watch his back.

Faith did not say a word to him, and instead just grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it wide open, scanning the interior to see if anything were planning to jump out at them.

There was nothing, save for a bullet riddled zombie laying in a pool of its own blood in the middle of the floor.

"I guess Jill's gone this way already," Faith said, stepping inside and glancing about.

"No doubt she'll have taken everything of value."

"Not everything." faith picked up a simple dagger that was sticking out of a second zombie's chest. Faith sighed. "This'll do, for now, I guess."

The pair entered the next room, which was a file room. Some of the cabinet drawers were open, with papers strewn haphazardly about. Harry went over to one and picked it up, scanning it swiftly for anything useful. If others had been searching for these documents, then maybe there was something worth reading. However, most of them seemed to be lists of records. He wasn't sure, but he thought that they were perhaps bank statements. Withdrawals were circled in red ink on one sheet, and deposits on another. It wasn't hard to see that some things were matching up. Somebody at MedGen Inc. was doling out money for a Mike Harris. In chicken scratch at the bottom, Harry made out the words: MedGen Umbrella. (subsidiary).

"Huh," Harry mused. "Wonder what the deal's with this shit. Hey Faith, do you know who Mike Harris is?"

"He's the mayor of this shit town," Faith said, sidling up next to him. "Why?"

"Looks like he's been taking bribes," Harry explained. "From this company called MedGen, or maybe Umbrella."

"Huh," she said thoughtfully. "You think it's got something to do with what's going on in the town?"

Harry shrugged. "It's a bit odd to be scattered about the floor here like this. Whoever was reading through these files was clearly in a hurry." Harry looked pointedly at her dagger. "Things must have already have been going to shit around here."

"Yeah, but wouldn't they want to take these with them?"

"Unless they faxed it," Harry replied. "I mean, if your chances of survival are like, ten to ninety, you don't want to be troubled by carrying a briefcase around. Whoever did this probably just copied the files on to wherever and then prayed that they would get there themselves eventually."

Faith considered it. "Sure, why not. It makes sense, and it's the only thing we've got so far. It could've even been our mysterious Jill who went rifling through these papers."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

Jill sat staring listlessly off into space. Part of her couldn't believe that Brad was dead, and part of her was starting to catch up to the fact that she was alone in a town full of zombies. Jill couldn't really claim to have ever been popular. She could count the number of friends she had on one hand, and even that dwindled after the incident at the mansion. Nobody was really prepared to get caught in the crossfire, and Jill had been so idealistic. So naive.

Now she knew better. You couldn't beat Umbrella. They weren't evil, the way she had thought evil people were supposed to be. They were actually quite ordinary individuals. It was that realization - that nothing distinguished her from any of them - that dawning horror that the enemy was not Umbrella but something deep and intrinsic to humankind, that had deflated her; had stripped her of all her energies. Since then, she had been simply puttering from one day to the next, without having any goal or purpose. Without having the will to do anything past making sure she had her most basic needs taken care of. Umbrella had broken her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had thought that, by giving up, she would be saved from the trauma of that dark side of humanity. If only she could have remained oblivious.

Now you're alone, she thought, staring at the grenade launcher that sat before her. She had hoped that by finding it, she would experience a sense of euphoria. Like it would solve her problems. But now, looking at it, she saw that it was a grenade launcher, not a miracle worker.

And Brad was dead.

Zombies were mindless thugs. They were driven by their need to feed, and it occluded all other functioning. Jill wasn't a scientist. She'd flunked high school, and had made it onto the STARS team through a backdoor through the military. She was top in her class in the reserves, and even did a stint in the Gulf War. She couldn't triangulate coordinates, and she couldn't work a microscope, but she could shoot things with remarkable accuracy, and that counted for something. She liked the feel of a gun in her hands. It made her powerful.

Zombies also didn't talk. They moaned and shuffled and drooled, but they most definitely did not talk. Jill wondered, not for the first time, whether she had it in her to kill a defenseless human. She was pretty certain that, if she survived this mess, she would personally hunt down every single member of the Board of Directors of Umbrella, starting with their CEO and working downward. There was no justice in the world anymore. None except for that which they made for themselves, now.

There was only one reason a steroid zombie freak would know they were STARS members, and there was only one reason it had laid a trap for them. They were being hunted. All of them, or maybe just her. Jill had a sinking feeling she was the only STARS member left alive. She was certain her colleagues could handle themselves well enough against zombies. But that thing, her nemesis, was something altogether different. Brad had unloaded nearly a full clip into its abdomen, and it hadn't even flinched. She gazed down at the grenade launcher once again, and, like always, whenever her back was to the wall, her resolve hardened. She was going to survive this mess, one way or another, and she was going to get the bastards that did this. Not because they were evil, or because she thought that a hundred other people weren't going to take their place and do exactly the same things, but because she was pretty sure there was simply nothing else for her to do.

Jill slung the grenade launcher across one shoulder, buckled a spread of explosives across her chest and loaded her shotgun and pistol. She tucked extra shells into a pouch at her waist and, once satisfied she had gleaned everything she could from the supply room, Jill headed out.

Faith and Harry exited the file room through a door on the far wall. This put them into a hallway with a shadowed alcove on one side and a stairway at the far end. "Reckon we're going up," Faith said, glancing keenly at the windows that lined the wall. Neither of them were oblivious to the fact that dark windows were dangerous things to be next to. However, before they could move in any direction, they saw Jill step lightly down the stairs, with what looked suspiciously like some sort of rocket launcher strapped expertly around her torso. "She's packing some serious heat," Faith commented with a hint of approval. "Maybe we'll get out of this after all."

Jill stopped at the foot of the stairs to study the two strangers that were standing across the hall from her.

None of them spoke, and Harry was acutely aware of Jill's gaze lingering on his wings. Wonder what she's thinking about that, he mused.

Both Faith and Harry were acutely aware that she was holding onto her pistol with a death grip, and that she was probably feeling rather trigger happy after Brad's death.

"Hey," Faith said.

"Hi," Jill responded. Some of the tension seemed to drain out of her posture, and, sensing that it was probably safe to approach, Faith took a step forward. She did not see Harry's moment of consternation. His unicorn sense had begun tingling, and was crescendoing into a headache. Without warning, he cried out, "GET BACK!" and immediately yanked Faith on the arm, dragging her into the alcove just as Jill skipped backwards and the windows exploded inward. Nemesis roared and was already climbing through. The splinters of glass flew out with enough force to bury themselves in the wood paneling on the other side.

"Christ fuck," Faith muttered. Both she and Harry were pressed close together, as if trying to melt into the shadows. Faith found herself momentarily seizing up at the sight of the creature, and so she did not immediately break out of Harry's surprisingly strong grip. Part of her wanted to rush forward and tackle the giant brute, and part of her knew that it was an entirely futile gesture. Like Harry, Faith experienced a moment of profound shame, realizing her impotence to save Jill.

Jill had ran up five of the steps of the stair well to help keep herself out of the monster's reach, all the while, holstering her pistol and swinging her grenade launcher off her shoulder and bringing it to bear against Nemesis. She fired immediately, causing a violent explosion to impact against Nemesis's chest and blowing shrapnel in all directions, as well as scorching its torso. Part of the banister was on fire. Jill was just loading another shot, when she saw, to her horror, Nemesis aiming a rocket launcher in her direction.

"Holy fuck," she breathed, allowing herself a moment of incredulity to blossom across her features before she threw herself over the banister just as the rocket impacted with the wall behind her, detonating and generating an enormous plume of blisteringly hot flame that tickled her backside as she fell into a crouch, her weapon already poised and discharging another grenade, this one angled up so that it caught nemesis clear in the face as he was turning. "Gotcha, motherfucker," Jill whispered, The grenade exploded, searing its skull and causing the bone to shine eerily. One of the shards slashed across its eye, causing Nemesis to flinch and roar in such a way that it sounded more like a wounded animal than a zombie. Seeing that Nemesis was hardly even damaged by the two direct hits, Jill opted to bolt. she turned tail and raced down the hall, barely giving Faith and Harry a glance before disappearing into the file room. Nemesis roared and charged past the little alcove, blowing the door off its hinges and rampaging into the file room in hot pursuit of its quarry.

Both Faith and Harry were silent after that display. Harry did not let go of Faith, and she did not seem to protest, and neither were prepared to admit the comfort they derived from each other's body heat. They were alone and vulnerable in a way that neither had been in a long time. For Harry, it was like being in the graveyard all over again, and for Faith, it was like being outcast by the Scoobies. Harry's wings unconsciously folded around the two of them to provide an extra layer of protection.

Finally, Faith spoke. "What are we going to do?"

Harry did not respond. He had no answer. He was racking his brain trying to figure out how the two of them were going to survive. He expected that he had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving by simply apparating away to the safety of another town, but that would mean leaving Faith in the lurch, and that wasn't something he was prepared to do. He was probably safer confining his apparation to the city limits, where he would have the advantage of streetlights, and he could then risk a major jump in the morning, where there was less of a chance of getting splinched and of being blindsided.

"Did you see her take a dive?" Faith asked, pulling away and stepping back out into the hall, letting the cold rush in to fill the space where she had stood. "Yeah, I was surprised by that," Harry replied. "Reckoned she should've broken her arm doing that."

"She's an expert," Faith mused. "And I'm pretty sure she at least sprained her wrist, though you could hardly tell."

"Did you notice that that thing was pretty single-minded."

"What do you mean?"

"It hardly spared us a second glance," Harry said. "It saw all three of us, but it went straight for Jill."

"You think it's after her specifically?" Faith asked. "These zombies don't seem to have much in the brains department."

"Yeah, well this one spoke too, remember? It said 'stars'. And it can also wield a rocket launcher." Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder what it means. Both that fellow Brad and Jill responded visibly when it said that word."

Faith shook her head. "I think it's probably better that we figure out how to fight it first.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, or just pray we don't run into it again. It's a big city. Besides, it's not even our primary objective."

"Yeah, well, I'm more concerned about what other obstacles we might find when we hit closer to home."

"True. And we're not even sure where to go from here."

"Actually, I've been thinking about that," Faith said. "Our last communication with Xander indicated that they were being stalked and captured."

"Yeah, so?"

Faith took a moment to phrase her next words. "Somebody created these monsters. If we're assuming that this uber-freak has been given specific instructions, then clearly a sentient being is behind all of this." Faith gestured expansively with her arms. "This whole city might be some kind of experiment, or possibly, the experiments just got out of hand. Buffy and her group might seem like pretty good targets for a group of overzealous scientists, wouldn't you think?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, sure."

On a roll, Faith continued with her suppositions. "Anyone doing that sort of thing has to be pretty well financed. The same kind of financing that might lead to bribing the mayor."

"MedGen," Harry breathed.

"Or its parent, Umbrella."

"Faith, you're brilliant."

"Well, I'm not just a pretty face, you know."

Harry grinned. "Absolutely not." He brushed the tip of his wing gently against her cheek, which startled her. He then apparated into the file room to begin scanning for any useful information.

A/N: Hi all,

As you may have noticed, the last few chapters are actually covering a rather compressed timespan. Specifically, they're following a twenty to thirty hour period in which Raccoon City goes to hell. This is going to continue to be the case for a little while longer. (I'm loosely following the events in RE III).

For those of you who want to see some overall plot development with Umbrella, Voldemort, etc. you're going to have to wait. Harry's time in Raccoon City, though relatively brief in the overall scheme of things, is going to take awhile, because, in my mind, it marks a long, arduous process of transformation for Harry.

Funnily enough, I expect this story is going to end up with an overall plot structure similar to that of HP and the Dark Lord.

As always, I welcome suggestions. Every suggestion that has ever come my way has been incorporated into the story in some way shape or form. Though, admittedly, sometimes I've twisted the suggestions beyond all recognition.

Until next time,

EB


	6. All the While

A/N: Hi all,

thank you for the reviews. You've all given me a lot to think about with regards to the tone and the direction of the story.

Chapter Six

All the While a Boundless Time

It had taken only nine hours for the city to fall prey to the zombie hordes. The initial zombie strike force had consisted of one hundred zombies and had been unleashed on the unsuspecting inhabitants at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning. Old man Marshall was part of the first wave, and, he, unlike so many others, had put up one of the best fights against the zombies. He, at least, had had easy access to firearms and had a penchant for using them. The same could not be said for others.

Despite consisting of a vastly inferior number, the zombies had two major advantages on their side. The first is that they were able to capitalize on the element of surprise. It took nearly six hours for emergency medical response teams, police teams, combat troops, civilians, park rangers and news reporters to develop a comprehensive understanding of what the threat was that they were dealing with. More often than not, those who came to understand the threat of zombies were killed before they could disseminate the information, or, even if they managed to send off a communication, it had little effect in pulling people from their collective stupor. It was very hard for the inhabitants of Raccoon City to believe that zombies were overrunning their town and eating their neighbours. If given an opportunity, sociologists would have imputed this persistent disbelief to the concept of cognitive dissonance, the same phenomenon that compels muggles to rationalize minor magical phenomena.

The second major advantage that the zombies had is that they, by the very act of coming into physical contact with their prey, were able to infect the intended victims with the very pathogen that had transformed them into eaters of the dead. The pathogen was virtually invisible. It did not generate pustules, or boils or abscesses or lesions that might have indicated to surrounding family and friends to avoid their loved ones. Nor did the pathogen manifest itself in the form of anti-social behaviour, aggressive urges, or erratic behaviour. The virus simply leeched life away from the victim, draining them of energy slowly and inevitably, which in turn drew their very friends and family around them like moths to a flame. Human compassion, which is often regarded as an endearing trait, only served to exacerbate the problem. By the time the victim was dead, the virus had infected virtually every cell in the body, and would quickly begin relaxing the tension in the skin, and re-molding it to allow for greater oxygen extraction. Instead of relying on merely human lungs to draw oxygen from the environment, the virus-run zombies could draw oxygen directly through the pores on their skin. The side effect of this, incidentally, is to give the once human creatures the greyish tinge to their skin that distinctly marks them as a zombie. Having access to nearly four times as much oxygen as it would otherwise have, the body begins converting body fat and glycogen into adenosine triphosphate at an incredible rate, transforming even the flabbiest and weakest individual into a super-charged killing machine, capable of thrice the strength and twice the speed of a normal human. Fortunately, zombies lacked the coordination to actually run, though their slow gait masks their inhumanly fast reflexes, and their ability to lunge with cat-like ferocity. With their energy consumption now kicked into overdrive, so too is their need for sustenance, cursing them with an insatiable hunger.

By eight o'clock in the evening, a scant four hundred survivors remained. They were the last survivors of the one hundred eighty-six thousand two hundred forty-four inhabitants of the town, and they were stretched across the city. Most of them had managed to lock themselves into some sort of bolt hole. They had dwindling supplies and little idea about what was going on beyond the four corners of their own room. Many of them simply prayed that the army or the national guard or somebody would come in and retrieve them. It was their last hope. All of them knew that to attempt to venture outside would spell certain doom.

Of all the victims, only about a hundred ten thousand became full-fledged, functioning zombies. The remaining seventy-five thousand or so were too badly mangled by their aggressors to be revitalized by the pathogen. Sometimes it was because the zombies managed to crack open the victims' skulls and eat the brain stems, though more often than not it was simple blood loss. Zombies could not exactly be called pack creatures, though they were not averse to roving in groups. It is not clear why they did not immediately turn to cannibalizing one another. Most likely they had an aversion to consuming infected meat, which is likely the reason why they often did not finish eating the bodies of their victims. The virus spread rapidly and infected the meat at a rate faster than the zombies could consume it. Only in the event that multiple zombies attacked a single body did it come to pass that the bones would be stripped clean of flesh. Scientists speculated that the virus, due to its rapid replication rate, created an electrochemical signature in their host bodies that warned off other virally infected bodies; much like a territorial marker. Only in the event that a zombie is dangerously low on glycogen, fat and convertible protein units does it overcome this natural aversion and begin preying on its fellow zombies. This is small comfort, however, since a zombie can go several days before it is driven to cannibalism.

"So explain this whole magic thing to me again," Faith said, ignoring Harry's grimace and contentedly munching away on a pink lady.

An hour had passed since Faith and Harry's departure from the police station. Fortunately for them, Faith had been able to retrieve her sword, which offered her some measure of comfort. Even if it had no impact against Nemesis, it was still an effective tool against most of the other critters roaming the streets. It had not taken them long to figure out where Umbrella was located, nor had it taken them long to realize that its location was conveniently across town. On foot and having to ghost their way through the city, they expected that it would take no less than four hours to walk to their destination. Faith had been inclined to take a car as far as they could go and then walk the remainder, but Harry was a bit more hesitant. The last thing they needed was to box themselves into a car only to get swamped. Understandably, Harry was not in the same position as Faith to survive a car crash unscathed. However, before they could get into a full blown argument over the issue, they were interrupted by an explosion that erupted at the far end of a street. Faith, even with her enhanced senses, could only barely make out a figure, which she assumed to be Jill, dashing through the wreckage and desperately avoiding the debris that was kicked up by the exploding rocket. While Faith was busy watching Jill disappear around a corner, Harry was busy gazing up at the dark figure standing atop a low-rise apartment complex. Nemesis was standing ramrod straight, and launching a second rocket, presumably with the aim of blowing Jill to smithereens.

"Fuck," Harry breathed, before dragging Jill into a nearby building, taking care to make sure that Nemesis didn't see them. That is how they ended up on the eighth floor of an apartment building, contentedly eating apples and leftover spaghetti in an empty apartment. Whoever had lived there was probably a zombie roaming the streets, which meant that they weren't particularly inclined to feel bad for stealing the previous owner's stuff.

"I have something called a magical core. Magic is inside me. It's like an energy source. Like having a battery that never runs out. And when I have my wand, it's like having a wire, or something that connects my magic to an outlet. The wand is an outlet. You know, so I can do magic. Otherwise, the magic just stays inside my body." Harry cursed himself for having a retarded understanding of magical theory. His analogies and explanations sounded lame even to his own ears.

Faith, however, not being technically inclined, was nevertheless soaking up Harry's words. At first, Harry couldn't understand why Faith was pressing him on his magic. It seemed as though she was trying to understand it, which Harry personally thought was a pointless endeavour.

"That's why you can do things like teleport, or transform," Faith mused. "Without a wand, I mean. Because you don't need an outlet."

"Er, yeah," Harry said, nodding, and never having thought about it before.

"Cool," Faith said. "I get that. So what else can you do without a wand?"

Harry cocked his head as he considered the question. Funny that he didn't really know the answer. Ever since his entry into the wizarding world, everything had always been done with a wand. It seemed like second nature to him, and to everyone else, and no one really questioned it.

"Well, I can't cast spells, if that's what you mean," Harry responded, certain of at least that much.

"Then what do you call the teleporting thing?" Faith responded instantly, already having thought ahead of Harry. "I mean, it's just a spell, right. Clearly you can cast spells on yourself. It's not like you need them to leave the body, you know? No outlet needed."

But Harry had no answer for her.

Faith sighed and fell into a silence. Harry's confusion reminded her once again about just how different he was from her. For all intents and purposes, she herself was a magical being. There was no scientific explanation that could justify her strength, speed, enhanced senses, prescience, etc. There was no secret nucleotide sequence hiding in her DNA, or odd chemicals in her blood stream. But, she supposed, her disdain for Harry's abilities went deeper than that. Ever since she had gotten her abilities, she had seen the world differently. She had seen herself differently. She understood that the way she was before was different than the way she was now. Now, she was a high performance machine. She was a Mazda RX-7 and everyone else was Ford Tempos. There was simply no contest. And her watchers had always instilled in her an appreciation for her abilities. Not that she needed much prompting. Like Buffy, she made a commitment to maintain her body. To keep herself on the edge of perfection at all times. And to see a magical being, with such potential sitting in front of her, just trudging along doing the bare minimum with an unimaginable power source at his disposal made her kind of disappointed. And the fact that he saw himself as an expert fighter of dark creatures just plain insulted her. Dark creatures were predators. And in order to hunt them, a person had to become a predator herself. Otherwise, you were just prey who got lucky. When she saw Harry, that's all she saw. A prey who got lucky. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she could reach over and snap his neck like a twig without him being the wiser. If it were Buffy sitting in front of her, Faith wouldn't have made it halfway. Hell, she'd already be getting her ass kicked for just thinking about it. Even Xander, who had no special powers to speak of, and who was a mere cripple, would probably at least react before he got his neck snapped.

But then again, maybe she was being unfair. Harry had pulled a few rabbits out of his hat so far, and maybe she had to admire him a little bit.

"Get up," Faith said, making a snap decision and gracefully getting to her feet.

Harry raised an eyebrow before shrugging and standing up.

"Yes?" he asked.

Faith tossed him her sword and began surveying the apartment. After a moment of study, she went over to the far wall and grabbed a metal bar that was part of a desk. She ripped it out and held it like a weapon. "Fight me," Faith instructed.

"Fight you?" Harry asked incredulously.

Faith nodded. "Yeah, fight me. Try and kill me. I dare you."

"I'm holding a sword," Harry responded, as though she were an idiot.

"Yeah, I got the memo. Now do it."

"Or what? You're going to kill me?" Harry asked.

Faith thought about it and, intuitively landing upon the same discovery that Kingsley had landed upon so long ago, just said, "No, but I will hurt you something good."

"Oh, right, all right then," Harry said. "I suppose I should have known you'd try and assault me sooner or later."

Faith sprang forward and brought her two foot long pipe up and in a wide arc.

Harry couldn't be described as muscular. He did not have the physique to become the bulky, intimidating sort. However, the combination of malnutrition and long hours performing hard labour had given him ropy muscles that were deceptively lean.

Harry took a step backward and raised his sword, gripped in both hands, to deflect the incoming strike. Faith had left herself relatively wide open, but Harry suspected she was baiting him and elected to move cautiously. The two weapons impacted with a jarring clang, and Harry gritted his teeth from the blow.

"Not bad," she said appraisingly.

Harry nodded. He lunged forward, going for a swift and lethal strike. His technique was clumsy - he did not quite know how to balance his weight on his feet, or how to use his legs to carry the strike forward. Faith dodged to one side and brought her weapon around, batting Harry's blade away with another bone-jarring collision that Harry felt penetrate all the way through his fingers and wrist. Harry pursed his lips. After two strikes, he already felt his hands starting to cramp up. This wasn't the kind of fighting he had ever done before and he wasn't even really sure how useful it would be.

Faith seemed to read his mind, because she raised one eyebrow and said simply, "I bet you're just wishing you had your wand."

"If I did, you'd be a quivering block of tofu right now," Harry said. "I wouldn't even waste my time with a stunner."

"You'd have to hit me first," she said, and then whirled around with lightning speed, employing all the powers bestowed upon her as the slayer, and bringing her weapon around in a swift motion designed to decapitate. However, Harry, having been made wary of her phenomenal speed, apparated across the room to the other side, allowing him a moment's breathing space. Faith did not overbalance, as she had done before, partly because she hadn't really been intending to decapitate Harry, and partly because she had already acclimatized to Harry's ability to disappear, stopped in midstrike, pivoted on one foot and threw her weapon in Harry's direction, even as he reappeared, her slayer sense functioning as a radar to pinpoint his location in advance and allowing her to respond in real-time.

Harry instinctively contracted one of his wings around his body, using it to shield himself. The pipe, travelling at eighty miles an hour and weighing one kilogram thudded against the diamond-hard exterior of his feathers and bounced off. "Ow," He said, "that stung."

Faith nodded. "Not bad. Reckon it's your turn, then."

Harry blinked. "Yeah, I reckon it is." Being wandless, he hadn't actually expected to put up much of a fight. He shuffled forward, his sword raised. Faith, in response, raised her fists. Not being versed in sword technique, Harry was hesitant to try any kind of slashing motion, afraid he would end up getting himself knocked off his feet. He wasn't confident he could do anything more complicated with a sword than jabbing motions. When he felt he was in approximately the right range, he pounced, aiming for a vital organ and confident that the worst he would do was skewer an arm. He was unprepared for what Faith actually did. He knew she was strong, but to see her leap from a standing jump, and flip clean over his head was completely unexpected. By the time she touched down, harry was whirling around intending to skewer her on her descent. However, she followed through with her landing by collapsing to the ground, letting Harry slice at thin air, while she herself executed a sweep kick, knocking Harry off his feet and onto his butt. Harry leapt to his feet, taking care to use his wings as a shield and keep his weapon close to his body so as not to overextend himself. Faith, meanwhile, was picking up her lost weapon and readying herself to continue the fight.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Nice."

"I aim to please."

The two sparred for another ten minutes. Faith became skilled at anticipating Harry's entry points for his apparations and Harry, in turn, improved shrugging off the disorientation that accompanied apparation travel. He found himself relying heavily on the few magical abilities at his disposal to maintain his defense, and it seemed to him that Faith was less interested in actually disarming him and was more interested in forcing him to use his magic. He even understood what she was trying to accomplish, though he had his reservations regarding how effective it would be. Kingsley had put him through a similar training regime earlier in the summer and Harry had shown little aptitude for it. Faith slammed her makeshift sword down on Harry's, sending another jolt through his body. He was visibly weakening, the strain of having to grip the weapon and maintain it in a defensive posture wearing down on him. In truth, Faith was also running out of steam, though she wasn't quite sure why. While Harry's attacks weren't anything to sneer at, she still hadn't coaxed a superhuman response. The strategy she was employing to bring Harry's magical abilities to the forefront was the same strategy that her Watcher had used, and which was the traditional strategy of Watchers throughout the ages. Slayers discovered their powers through extreme danger. It marked the beginning of their customarily short and brutal careers.

She couldn't understand why she was being drained of energy. Was Harry's magic manifesting itself in some as of yet unknown way, draining her of her own energy as a kind of parasitic offense? Faith stopped and took a step back. She tossed her weapon to the side and said, "I reckon that's enough."

Harry let the sword fall uselessly to one side. He relaxed visibly and flexed his fingers. "I think I'm going to be feeling that for a week."

"Felt good though, didn't it?"

"yeah, actually. It kind of did." Harry headed to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. "You want some?"

Faith nodded, though he could tell her attention was focused elsewhere.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Shh," Faith said, raising one finger to shush him. After a moment's contemplation, Harry finally heard it too. There was a noise, far off in the distance, though he couldn't make out what it was.

"A train's coming."

"A train?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Yeah, like a monorail or something." Faith brushed past him and went to a window overlooking a short field. Down below, there were train tracks barely visible in the penumbra of streetlights. "Reckon you can jump?" she asked finally.

"What?"

Faith turned to face him and then pointed a finger down at the tracks below. "That's our ticket to the other side of this God-forsaken hole."

"You can't be serious," Harry said, despite already knowing that she was. He glanced down at the darkness, and swallowed. He also knew that she was going to take off with or without him, and that, if he didn't join her now, he may as well pack up and go home. And not because he was incapable of surviving on his own, but because bloody Giles never even bothered giving him a photo of the people he was supposed to be searching for. He was stuck at the hip to the slayer, and that thought, which would have irritated him profusely hours earlier, did not trouble him quite so much. Perhaps it was because she had tried to help him understand his own magic right now, however misplaced that attempt happened to be, or perhaps it was because their conversations had transformed into something resembling civil, Harry did not know. All he knew for certain was that he hadn't liked that look of melancholy that had graced her features back at the police station and that, even with all her formidable survival instincts, Raccoon City was host to creatures that surpassed even her ability to handle. Was that worry? He resolved to think about it at a later date. They had a train to catch.

Finally, he nodded tersely, indicating that he would follow wherever she dared to take him.

The train arrived three minutes later, and Harry, to his satisfaction, found that Faith was coiled tight like a spring. Even she was nervous. The drop to the bottom was almost twenty metres, which would have been ludicrously lethal for any normal human. And the fact that they were going to be impacting a hard, fast-moving surface wasn't helping any. On the one hand, Faith's drop would be easier to time. She intended to just drop like a log, which would take all of two seconds to complete. Harry, on the other hand, incapable of surviving such an impact, would have to descend more gently, using his wings to the best of his abilities in order to gently guide himself.

"Ready?" Faith asked.

In reply, Harry just closed his eyes for a brief moment before jumping out the window, using his wings to subtly guide him forward and clear of any protruding ledges. The first thing that struck him was the chill of the air as it whipped passed him as he descended. Harry flexed his wings and executed a fierce downward stroke before he had a chance to pick up too much speed. His body jerked to a halt, sending a jolt running up his back and through his neck, before he began to fall once more. Gulping a lungful of air and ignoring the sensation of nausea that was accompanying his unsteady descent, Harry proceeded to beat his wings more gently this time, to allow for a more controlled descent.

Fortunately, it was a windless evening, and he managed to fall directly over top the train, saving him the trouble of having to navigate himself laterally. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Faith hit the roof of the lead car, expertly compacting herself into a ball and performing a backwards somersault to absorb the impact. The more time he spent with Faith, the more he had to admire the usefulness of her superhuman skill. He, having descended much more slowly, and not having quite the same innate sense of timing as a slayer, landed on the third car, his body held rigid to brace for impact. However, Harry did not take into account the inertial displacement, and he found himself being flipped onto his back and skidding ten feet towards the end of the car, his fingers and wings grappling with the smooth metal surface to try and slow his slide. His left wing managed to catch on a piece of twisted metal, partly spinning him around it and absorbing enough of his momentum to keep him from being propelled off the car and onto the grassy field below.

Bloody hell, he thought, drinking in the darkness around him. I just jumped off an eighth floor balcony and onto a moving train. He glanced about, peering in the gloom at his body to check to see if there were any broken bones or missing limbs. Apart from some mild bruising on his left shoulder, he appeared to be perfectly fine. Fuck, yeah, he thought. I'm amazing.

At that precise moment, while Harry was drinking in his success at executing what was a rather difficult feat, he felt a deep reverberation cut through the body of the train. Nemesis, it seemed, had had the same idea as him and Faith. He had jumped from a neighbouring building and had landed on the lead car, his massive body obscuring Faith from view. He had been heavy enough that he had made a sizeable depression in the metal, and one foot had gone so far as to break through the roof of the train.

Faith was dodging a large, vicious swipe from one of Nemesis's fists. "Goddamn," Harry groaned, pitching forward and begging for a warm bed and a cup of tea. "Not him again." Harry could distantly make out Faith's shouts, egging the monstrosity on. When Harry looked up next, he saw Faith leaping off the creature's shoulders and giving him a dropkick clean in the face, which, Harry was impressed to see, had the effect of knocking Nemesis clear on his back.

"Take that, motherfucker," she said, adopting a fighting stance and drawing out a scrunchie to tie her hair back. Nemesis got to his feet and let out a deep rumble. It then charged her, both its arms outstretched. Faith tucked herself between its arms, dodging one fist as she slammed her foot down on its kneecap with enough force to bend a steel beam. But the creature shrugged off the assault as if it were nothing and instead picked Faith up by the neck and hurled her fifteen feet, an expression of horror plastered across her face. Faith disappeared into the darkness, and Harry just moaned once more. "Oh, God, why me?"

But Nemesis was apparently not interested in pulverizing Harry, because it proceeded to rip apart the rooftop of the lead car and jump down into the passenger section below.

It took Harry only a moment to realize that that was not a good thing. Almost immediately, Harry could hear the sound of automatic gunfire being discharged, and the cries of several people, one of whom he suspected was Jill. The din of gunfire was halved as one of the mercenaries down below was casually thrown out the side window. Then, to his dismay, he watched as the lead car began to get further away. Harry quickly realized that somebody had disconnected the cable car with Nemesis in it, so that the rest of the train was slowing down as the front car sped up. In the next minute, Harry watched, dumbfounded, as the lead car detonated in a titanic explosion. Worse, the remainder of the train, Harry realized, would quickly be derailed once it impacted the wreckage. You've got two seconds to jump, Potter.

But Harry found he could not jump. Instead, he just stared for those brief seconds at the plumes of flame and backlit flying debris, mesmerized at the beauty hidden in the carnage. Then, in a flash, the remainder of the subway train, having slowed down somewhat, but not enough, hit the mess of burning rubble and the shell of the lead train car. Amidst the smells of smoke and burning rubber, and the crunch of metal on metal, Harry picked out the shrill keening of the train wheels grating along the tracks, before the train lurched forward once more only to collapse to one side, pitching Harry at an odd angle and into the darkness.

Unlike Faith and Harry, Dawn and Xander had started out on the right side of the city. However, that was small comfort. All it meant was that the concentration of zombies was higher and that there were other, more sinister creatures lurking about as well. The central node of Umbrella's Raccoon City operation was a skyscraper marking the tip of one arm of downtown. It was easily the largest building in the city, not even taking into consideration the vast underground research complex that sat underneath the sewer system.

Dawn had expected, ever since the catastrophe at the vineyard, that Xander would become even more useless than he normally was. Possibly, he might have even become as useless as Dawn was in the fight against the big bad. However, that proved not to be the case. Even with just one eye, he was capable of assessing an entire street, including all its shadows, all its alleyways, the potential weak spots, the tactical pressure points, with a single sweeping glance. Similarly, he proved to be rather effective with his marksmanship. It was disgruntling for her, since she was still having difficulty wielding the larger caliber pistols. The last thing she wanted was to feel like a burden. Yet again. so that was why she took particular pride in managing to decrypt the security system that blocked people from gaining access to the lobby.

"Funny that the creepy critters haven't smashed up the walls," Dawn commented, surveying the eerie silence. Two zombies were roaming around outside, shuffling their way piteously towards them.

"It's not glass," Xander remarked, sparing the zombies only a glance. They were now beating futilely against the walls. "It's some kind of polymer, like Plexiglas. Only much stronger, I expect."

"Oh," Dawn said. "How did you know that?"

"Plate glass windows have a particular refractive index. You can tell by the quality of the reflections in them."

"Oh."

The two began exploring the main level of the Umbrella corporation. It was both fortunate and a little disturbing that they found no signs of disturbances on any of the floors of the building. During their short jaunt through the streets of Raccoon City, it became quickly clear that zombies had a tendency to smash their way into stores and, in their shambling haste to catch their prey, they often upturned many of the contents in aisles, often drooling or bleeding on surfaces. If Umbrella were truly the source of the corruption, if it were ground zero for the creation of the zombie hordes, then Xander and Dawn should have run across signs of the great zombie escape. To Xander, the unusual antiseptic quality of the building suggested to him that either they were in seriously the wrong place, or the release of zombies was a planned occurrence. Xander had grown used to the idea that people were generally nice enough, even if they could be petty and shortsighted at times, and that the real evil in the world could be laid at the hands of soulless abominations. It was a warped perception of the world brought on by the nature of the conflicts he found himself in while living in Sunnydale.

The duo had decided to canvas the upper levels of the office complex first, before attempting to venture into the underground research facility. Neither of them had any idea what they would be getting themselves into when they descended into the subterranean labyrinth, and so had decided that they would err on the side of caution. Both were acutely aware of their vulnerability.

After an hour of searching the executive offices, Dawn hit the jackpot. One of the executives was hoarding secret files in a shallow crevice between desk drawers. "Looks like Ms. Woodyard's been rather naughty," Dawn breathed, her eyes alight with anticipation. Xander came around to where Dawn was standing, careful not to pass by any windows. As high up as they were, Xander wasn't taking any chances leaving himself open to an attack. Windows were dangerous, because they provided a false sense of security that often led to the death of a hapless victim. Xander was determined not to let that happen to either him or Dawn. He adjusted his eye patch and squinted down at the first couple of pages that Dawn had spread over the surface of the desk. Much of the documentation consisted of memos, account statements, transaction records, and other items that Xander was certain was blackmail fodder. He thought he recognized a senator's name on one of the pages.

Deeper in, they found some passing references to magic, and to terms he had never heard before, like "muggles". He filed the information away for later use, and told himself to raise the issue when he saw Willow or Giles. Maybe they would know.

It should be noted that Raccoon City was just one of many research sites that Umbrella had in the world. It was not even considered their most secretive, and it certainly should not have had any information in it whatsoever relating to the subject matter of the magical world. However, Jacqueline Woodyard, a sophisticated and savvy aristocrat of an older world had learned her lesson well. In order to blackmail the higher ups at Umbrella, you needed a serious shitload of ammunition, and even then, you need to make sure it's in twenty-six different locations, half of them linked to dead man's switches, and the other half floating precariously in the ether, their fates governed by mere chance. And even then, on top of all that, you had to be careful how much you asked for, and you had to make sure you did it politely. Otherwise, you could find yourself locked in a legal action against Umbrella's law firm, Wolfram & Hart, and that was a bad thing. Jacqueline had done her job well. She had managed to uncover sensitive material from a Zone 4 site - one of Umbrella's nerve centres, which gave her access not only to deeply incriminating information on the Raccoon City projects, but also on other projects around the world.

Most of it was incomprehensible to Xander, but even he could tell that it was juicy stuff.

"Let's pack this up, shall we?" he asked, still staring at the lab report on the Tyrant project. Apparently, it had been a failure, because the cybernetic monstrosity was incapable of distinguishing friend from foe, but the scientists seemed to have corrected that shortcoming with their second attempt, the Nemesis project."

"They're using viruses to mutate people," Dawn said aloud, breaking the otherwise oppressive silence.

The two were now taking the elevator down to the sublevels. A security key was required, but that did not stop them. They had found a spare in one of the executive offices. Xander nodded.

"They're building super monsters," Dawn persisted, her voice a combination of terrified and resolved.

"Yeah, Dawny, that's what it looks like. Another Adam. Maybe this time an army of them."

"Only, it's not the government. It's a corporation."

Xander had nothing to add to this. Compared to Umbrella, the Initiative was a bunch of backwater hicks with spades and pitchforks. Umbrella, on the other hand, was the real deal. The zombies were just test fodder. They were victims of a large scale experiment program designed to proliferate biodiversity in their virus population. Raccoon City was a two-fold research site designed to test controlled biological warfare, on the one hand, and, on the other, create superhuman creatures.

And they had Buffy. The thought made Xander shiver, and he resolved to get his friends out of that hellhole ASAP.

Sadly, Xander and Dawn would soon discover, to their sorrow, that neither Buffy, nor Willow, nor the other captured slayers were in Raccoon City at all. Their foray into zombie infested territory was all for naught.

Harry awoke to the sound of falling rain. The first thing he noticed was the warmth, and the second was the softness. After what felt like a lifetime trudging through mountains and abandoned streets and getting into one fight after another, the comfort of a softly lit, cozy little bedroom felt like heaven.

"Mmm," he mumbled, digging deeper into the mattress and only halfway consciously pulling the blankets around his neck and shoulders. He had been dreaming; he was certain of that, and his mind seemed to be urging him to return to that netherworld where pain and sorrow and guilt and loss did not exist. However, as hard as his brain tried, he found he could not return there. Whether it was because of his own resolve or whether it was because he knew something was wrong, he did not know. All he knew is that the memory of the blazing fire in the common room hearth of Gryffindor Tower drew away and was replaced by the sterile lamplight of an incandescent bulb. Harry tried to stuff his face into his pillow, but he could already hear the sound of a person shifting, and he doubted they were particularly interested in waiting for him. Knowing Faith, he would quickly become a punching bag if she found him dawdling.

And then it hit him. The memories. The train, Nemesis, the explosion, the darkness, the zombie hordes, the search for the slayers. Harry blinked and tried to peer out into the room, but he found his vision was blurry. from fatigue. At first, he thought he needed to put on his glasses, before he realized that he had in fact, hired a transfiguration specialist to fix his myopia. He blinked again to clear away the fuzziness, already calling out as he spied a figure sitting in an armchair. "Faith?" he asked, softly, checking to see if she were awake.

The figure stirred, and looked up, tired brown eyes meeting Harry's green ones. "You're not Faith," Harry said, suddenly aware at just how dry his throat was. It felt scratchy, as though he had tried to eat a canister of sawdust, or lead chips or something.

The figure did not respond at first, and Harry got the distinct feeling that he was being scrutinized. All the while, he tried to place the image of the woman sitting before him. It did not go unnoticed that she was holding a pistol, and, it was that fact that clarified his confusion. "Jill," he amended.

The figure, Jill, shifted at the sound of her own name, and, after a moment, Harry wondered whether she was planning to respond at all. Finally, she said, "Yeah, that's me."

Harry found it difficult to reconcile the defeated tone of the woman in front of him with the woman who went toe to toe with Nemesis. She didn't seem interested in Harry's name, though he felt obliged to give it. "My name's Harry," he said. "Harry Potter." He had half-expected her to glance up at his scar, but, unsurprisingly, she didn't. She was a muggle after all.

Hearing his name seemed to galvanize her into action. She stood and, in a gesture that Harry took as friendship, she holstered her gun and approached, kneeling before him to gauge his wounds. "How are you doing?"

The question seemed oddly personal to Harry, especially with her being so close as she checked over his wounds. He supposed it had to do with the fact that she didn't act like a healer. The inflection in her voice suggested that she was actually concerned about his well-being, as opposed to simply having that clinical detachment that all doctors were supposed to have. Then again, being bereft and alone and dogged by nightmare monsters probably tended to heighten the human capacity to forge relationships. It would be a survival mechanism.

"I'm all right," Harry managed, shifting slightly to show that he had functioning limbs. Then, as if realizing that he may not have functioning limbs, Harry began flexing his arms and legs each in turn to make sure there was nothing missing. To his relief, all his limbs were intact and operational. Phew, he mentally sighed.

"I promise I'll do anything in my power to get you out of here," Jill said.

"Er thanks," Harry replied, somewhat awkwardly. Did she think he needed saving? Well, given that she most likely had, in fact, saved his life by pulling him out of the wreckage and dragging him God only knew where, yeah, she probably did. Harry cleared his mind of abstract thoughts and cast his gaze about in search of a topic. However, the room was devoid of any idiosyncrasies that he could have latched onto, so, instead he just said, "You're a cop?"

Jill nodded. "I'm a member of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad."

Harry blinked. "The - what?"

"Stars," Jill amended for Harry's benefit. "It's a high-level division of the RCPD designed to deal with dangerous operations."

"I see," Harry said, though he actually found he didn't quite see at all. "That's like SWAT, right?"

"Yeah, only without all the extra fanfare." Now that they were talking, Jill began busying herself by taking a cloth and wiping down the most egregious of Harry's injuries. Part of him wanted to protest, but part of him found he rather enjoyed the ministrations. This was nothing like the Hogwarts hospital. For one, there were no disgusting substances that he was being forced to ingest.

"Why in the world does the RCPD need a SWAT team?" Harry asked. "I mean, isn't that for like terrorists and the Unabomber and stuff?"

Jill shook her head. "We only train here. Most of our missions are in other cities, like Denver, or Detroit. Between the desert and the mountains, Raccoon City is an ideal location for staging operations. It doesn't hurt that the property's cheap and many of us like living here."

"I can see how zombies would be an attractive part of the wildlife," Harry responded dryly, though he regretted saying it the moment the words left his mouth. Jill did not respond, but he could see in the tightening of her muscles the tension of the last few hours hitting her full force. "Er, sorry," Harry mumbled, willing himself to sink deeper into the covers and disappear. Unlike Harry, Jill had lost friends and colleagues over the past twenty-four hours. Harry himself had seen her lose Brad, who had thrown his life away to protect her. You're a fucking heel, Potter. Now even more desperate to switch topics, Harry jumped in on the train issue. "So how'd we get here?"

Jill tossed the now blood-crusted rag to one side and began wadding up some tissue, which she dabbed with a bit of vodka, and then began swabbing Harry's wounds. "I carried you. It was lucky we didn't run across anything more vicious than a couple of stray zombies and a crow. Even still, I had to duck into the cathedral to rest. That's where we are now."

"All right," Harry said. "What happened to Faith? And how far are we from MedGen?"

"I didn't see anyone else, and I wasn't going to stick around. I doubt that monster was truly dead." Jill then paused in her swabbing to stare curiously at Harry. "Why are you going to MedGen?"

"Well, it's a subsidiary of Umbrella," Harry said. "Reckon that's where the action is."

"Action?" Jill asked.

"Yeah, looks like Umbrella's stolen some friends of Faith's. She and I are tasked with getting them back. Why? Where are you headed?"

"Same place. Apparently there's a chopper we can use to escape."

'Oh, yeah. I reckon that'd be handy," Harry said, before shaking his head. "Regardless, I can't leave. Not without Faith, and not without her friends."

Jill stood abruptly and tossed the disinfectant to one side. She went over to a table where Harry could see the grenade launcher resting idly. Jill began busying herself with inspecting it, while markedly ignoring Harry. Finally, she said, "That's all I can do for your wounds."

"Right," Harry replied, gingerly dragging himself to a sitting position and struggling to keep from crying out. As best as he could tell, he had no broken bones, but he was still sore around his ribcage, and his body was laced with multiple cuts of varying degrees. It didn't help that the vodka was leaving a stinging sensation on his skin. "I reckon I'd best be off then." He tentatively got to his feet.

"Harry," Jill said, cutting in on his attempt to stand. "It's probably best you accept that your friend is dead."

"That doesn't matter. I have to go back out there anyway. I'm not going to just leave her. She could have a broken bone or something." Personally, Harry doubted that a mere broken bone was going to stop Faith. Her healing powers were phenomenal, and it also meant that she could endure a great deal of agony and still keep moving.

"I can't help you if you go back out there. We have to keep moving."

"Right, well, that's fine," Harry said. "I don't need your help. I mean, I'm thankful for everything that you've done, but I've got the rest under control. Besides, Faith isn't the kind of person who's just going to lay down and die. She's tough, and she'd probably beat the shit out of me for ditching her." Harry shook his head. "No, I can't leave her. Hell, she's probably already making her way over here right now."

Jill loaded up her weapons and stared fixedly at Harry. So much so that he had to resist the itch to start squirming. Finally, she said, "You're going to have a hell of a time finding her out there in the darkness. The train crashed next to an abandoned field and junkyard, and there's almost no light. I only managed to get out of there because of the light of the fire, and that's surely died down by now. Not to mention that the fire undoubtedly attracted creatures of all kinds. If you go out there looking for her, you'll be facing a battalion of zombies in the dark, searching for a person who may be dead or unconscious, and you'll be unarmed. Besides, if she's that tough, you can always rely on her to find her own way."

However much Harry wanted to, he couldn't refute Jill's logic. It made no sense to go after Faith. And that wasn't even taking into account the fact that Faith was superhuman. Chances were, she'd have to come rescue him. Still, Harry wasn't the kind of person who left somebody behind. It grated against everything he stood for; everything that he thought he was. He was a hero. Didn't that mean that he had to choose to go back out there? Isn't that what heroes did?

But then again, that was what cost Sirius his life. Harry's saving people thing. It's childish of you to think that you have to go out there personally to save every single person. Not to mention conceited. You're not good enough, not fast enough, not strong enough to save everyone out there. If Sirius Black's death is going to count for anything, it's going to count for that, Potter. Grow up and move on.

Jill, seemingly oblivious to the internal debate that was raging within Harry, had already wrapped up her belongings. She sincerely hoped that Harry would follow her to the chopper and take off. Partly, it was out of concern for his well-being. She could see that he was young, and clearly way over his head. But another part of her - the part that had acclimatized to accepting people's death, was more interested in securing a live specimen to show the world. Harry was undoubtedly a product of Umbrella's hideous experimentation, and that made him invaluable as a tool against the multinational. It even made sense, in a strange sort of way. Winged soldiers. Harry looked like some sort of angel of death with his wings outstretched. If nothing else, he would put the fear of God into his enemies. Literally.

"Okay," Harry said. "I'll go with you. But I'm not going to be waylaid from finding Faith's friends. I owe her that. Even if it means walking into a room full of zombies unarmed. I don't care. I won't fail them." Satisfied that he had made a compromise, Harry followed Jill out the door and into the darkness beyond.

Faith let out a long, suffering groan. If there was one thing she hated, it was being hurled off a moving train at high velocity. After being rocketed like a football, Faith had instinctively thrown her hands out in front of her unknowingly imitating a Superman pose as she sailed through the air. Aware that she was oriented in the wrong direction relative to her flight vector, her slayer sense allowed her to position her body in precisely the kind of angled pose that would allow her to minimize impact upon contact with the ground. Tucking one arm in more tightly than the other, she hit the ground rolling, at a forty-five degree angle, the flat side of her forearm positioned to absorb enough of the blow to allow her to flip herself over before her arm could be broken by the full force of the impact. Her back then absorbed much of the rest, some of it being sucked up by her other arm as she continued to roll, and giving her only minimal damage to her skull. Still, the blows were severe, and only the fact that she had managed to land on a strip of grass had saved her from having a concussion. Still, it took upwards of fifteen minutes for her to get her bearings and let her slayer powers perform enough healing operations such that she was in a fit condition to walk without stumbling.

The first thing she noticed was the burning wreckage. Plumes of black smoke were disappearing into the night sky from a raging torrent of flames. From what she could gather, the front car had suffered a massive explosion that had derailed the rest of the train. There were warped, twisted spires of metal jutting out in all directions at the centroid of the blast, with progressively fewer from there onwards. Only the second train had completely derailed, falling over to one side, half its body lost amidst the burning rubble. That was all Faith could make out from this distance. The wreckage was at least two kilometres away, which she supposed made sense. The train must have continued onward for a minute or two after she had been flung from it. She had had almost no time to check to see how Harry had fared with his landing before Nemesis was upon them. Nemesis must have had the same idea as them, and surely it had been him who had caused the destruction of the train. Having had a better idea on how to deal with him, she had been more prepared and was able to get in a couple of good, solid hits. Unfortunately, she was still having trouble adjusting to the fact that it cared very little for the injuries that it sustained, assuming she had managed to injure it at all. Even vampires responded to injuries by pausing and issuing a death threat. Nemesis, however, spared not a second to recover, as though he was not even aware of the pain she was inflicting, which, most likely, was the case. The powers that allowed it to move were not mystical in origin. This thing was like Adam. Or worse, the rock beast. Moreover, she had expected to at least have broken its kneecap with her low kick, but that hadn't happened. Without the aid of mystical powers she could only assume that it had some sort of internal skeleton that was stronger than a steel girder. Much stronger, and that was troubling. She doubted she could beat it in a fair fight, which meant that she was going to have to make it an unfair one.

But first, she had to find Harry, or what was left of him. She had trouble believing that Harry was actually dead. Not because she was naive and expected things to work out okay, but because he was a tough son of a bitch. Even though she could probably pummel him into the ground if she really tried, she found it very difficult. That first night atop the mountain, she had let her anger get the better of her. At first, she wanted to just hurt him really badly, and then perhaps leave him there for a couple of days to be picked up by hikers. But he had proven surprisingly difficult to kill. First, he had survived a fifteen foot toss, without a single broken bone or without losing consciousness. And then, even after she had disarmed him, thinking that he was completely defenseless, he had sent a beam of bluish energy that had impacted with her chest. Unlike the stunner he had tried back in Giles' office, this one she could feel was meant to kill her. For the briefest moment, she had felt as though her lungs had been on fire and that her internal organs were just going to collapse. A shiver of something had crawled up her spine, and she was certain that if she had been a newbie slayer, she would have most likely been gravely injured. It was only the brutality of her life, her skill with using her own power, her ability to redirect her energies that allowed her to gear up her slayer powers in time to withstand the assault. While slayers weren't the toughest creatures out there, they were still formidable in their own right, and the fact that the pipsqueak had the strength to kill one unnerved her. She had wanted to kill him right then and there, and had done her best to do so. She had lifted him into the air and tried to choke him to death. But, between the blistering wounds that he was inflicting on her body, and her already depleted energy, she didn't even manage to crush his windpipe. And then he had simply vanished, like he had done in Giles' office, leaving her staring stupidly at her empty hand. Of course, he hadn't gotten very far, but then, her next attempt, even more desperate than the last, failed spectacularly. She had actually been repelled, by what she could only describe as a shockwave. And when she had righted herself, she saw that what lay in front of her was no longer something entirely human. Harry had partially transformed. That final act had depleted all her hatred, and had left her bereft and alone, forced to stew in her own ignorance. Seeing Harry like that reminded her how little she actually knew about him, and just how insensible it had been of her to try and kill him. It didn't help that, with his muscles relaxed, he looked incredibly young. She hadn't realized just how tense he was all the time; a tension she could understand, because she had carried such a thing with her. It made him look older than he was.

There was a groan somewhere off to Faith's left, and, spying with her acute vision, she saw a dark form lying haphazardly sprawled across the dirt. Picking up her sword, which, thankfully, was no more than ten feet away, Faith went over to the body and nicked it with the tip of her blade. It stirred, and Faith could now tell that, the mysterious person was male and just coming out of unconsciousness. Must've been thrown from the train also. That, or he jumped.

"Hey," Faith said, now closing in and nudging the stranger with her boot. "Get up."

However, he did not seem particularly receptive to Faith's prodding, and instead just tried to shift out of the way. Goddamn, she thought irritably, spying about for any other task that she could perform. To her dismay, she found that the darkness was settling in more deeply. The firelight from the train wreck was dwindling, plunging her into even further darkness. And worse, she could sense things shifting out there. Dark things. Probably attracted by the carnage. They were still too far away for her to detect with her enhanced hearing, smell or sight, but she knew they were coming. Her danger sense was alive and impelling her to hightail it out of the area. Normally, the cover of night was a slayer's best friend. They were built for it; their senses tuned in such a way as to make use of the ambient energies that could guide them only in darkness. But here, in this instance, facing these creatures, Faith suspected that she was at a disadvantage.

"Christ fuck, I don't have time for this," she muttered, glancing down at the prone figure. She knelt down, against her better judgment, and began poking at him with her finger. "Get up," she whispered.

The man seemed to respond to this, as if detecting the urgency in her voice and responding accordingly. He roused himself as best he could, even going so far as to drag himself to his knees, and then, with a grunt, he dragged himself to a standing position, staggering a bit as he regained full control of his limbs. "God, what hit me?" he muttered, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs before squinting and casting his gaze about.

"Can you walk?" Faith asked, coming up close to him, but taking care not to invade his personal space.

"Er, yeah," he said, testing his legs. "My left's a bit sprained, but I can manage."

"Good, 'cause we're going to have to hoof it and fast," Faith said, pointing in the direction of the train, where now the only visible remains were the glowing red chunks of protruding metal. "We've got company."

The stranger seemed to understand because he nodded, though Faith couldn't make out any of his features in the gloom. Taking charge, and having assessed the area already, she pointed to a building that looked like it could have been a warehouse, or an industrial complex, or something. She could now pick up the sound of shuffling, but the sound of their moans was distinctly absent. Fuckers are trying to be stealthy, she thought. "Come on," she said, pushing past him and heading out towards the faint outline of what she hoped would serve as their sanctuary.

Thankfully, the stranger had the sense to follow, and, also, he was able to maintain a light jog in order to keep up with her. "Name's Carlos, by the way," he said.

"Faith," she replied neutrally. She supposed it was handy to have a name, but, given the dangers, her mind was directed to the task of keeping an eye on her surroundings. Even though the critters could probably zero in on her position from the sound of her feet crunching on the occasional bit of discarded detritus, she still didn't like broadcasting her position by talking. It seemed amateurish somehow.

Even though they were going at a good clip, easily twice the speed of a shuffling zombie, Faith found her slayer sense was kicking it up a notch, alerting her to the approach of a predator. She was certain it couldn't be Nemesis, since there was no way he could manage being stealthy. Not when he must have weighed a thousand pounds. That had been another thing that had disturbed her. A full body check from a slayer should have easily knocked a thousand pound humanoid creature off its legs. But with Nemesis, it had hardly even budged him. Faith resolved to think about it later. She had more immediate problems on her hands, and she needed to focus. Not ten feet from the building, and just a couple of steps away from blessed lamplight, Faith sensed the rush of wind that preceded the swipe of a large fist. Within a twentieth of a second, Faith was already pivoting to make a roundhouse, her entire torso angling downwards to give her leg enough thrust to turn a human torso to pulp. Her leg, however, did not impact any hard surface. Instead, she felt her leg being plucked out of midair and twisted, sending her sprawling to the ground. "Oof!" she wheezed, already positioning herself to make a swift roll to the right, using the momentum the creature had lent her to cleanly dodge the killing blow. Just like vampires, these creatures had little to no finesse when fighting. They always tried to jump in with a killing shot that made them ever so predictable. Only the truly experienced vampires, like Spike and Angelus knew that fighting a slayer required tactics and strategy. You had to play it like a game of chess. You couldn't go right in for the king, or else you'd be picked off by one of the pawns, or a bishop. No, you had to cut off squares, limit their maneuverability, ever so slowly, bit by bit, stripping away each layer of defense, one at a time, having patience and waiting for just the right opening. Of course, that level of tactical skill was next to impossible, since, one of the key features of the slayer package was a superlative tactical programming. Slayer instincts allowed slayers to find precisely the right combination of attacks from any given situation that would lead them to bettering their position, so that they would inevitably be drawn to the final kill. It was this one ability and this one ability alone that allowed them to beat even the worst odds. It didn't hurt that their enemies always underestimated them.

Knowing that the creature would most likely find itself in the same spot that she had just occupied, Faith leapt to her feet, already bringing her sword down in a slashing motion designed to inflict the most damage regardless of what position the creature was in. To her luck, she saw that her slice had severed the creature's hand off at the wrist. It howled, and, for the first time, she could tell that the creature she was fighting was of the same ilk as the one she had tangled with on top of the mountains. Already knowing that it would charge heedless of the consequence, Faith employed the same tactic she had employed the previous time, leaping over its head in an astounding demonstration of acrobatic prowess. Only this time, she drove the tip of her sword downward, right through the top of its skull, letting her forward momentum carry herself and her sword forward with enough force to cut clean through the back of its head, spraying gore and brains across the ground, just inches from where she landed. The creature stumbled after the lethal blow and fell face first into the grass. Not wasting a moment, Faith turned around and ran toward the abandoned warehouse, Carlos just managing to stick a zombie with a knife and coming up alongside her. Faith forced herself to slow her pace so he could keep up, all the while throwing the occasional glance over her shoulders to check to see if anything else were approaching. Now bathed in light, Faith could see that there were more hunters lurking amongst the zombies. One executed a high jump, putting it just over ten feet into the air and bringing it dangerously close to their position.

Goddamn, Faith thought. If she had to stop to kill it, then chances were its brothers would have enough time to catch up on her. She doubted she could fight more than two at a time. And even then only because of her sword. However, before she could puzzle the problem any further, Carlos lobbed something that looked suspiciously like a grenade behind him. "Run faster," he said between breaths. Faith did not need to be told twice. She picked up speed and, just when she sensed the explosion, she threw herself into a somersault, just as shrapnel went sailing over her head. The second the last metal shard was down, she sprang back up ready to fight, but found that the hunter had taken a direct hit, and was down for the count. Some of the lead zombies had also been blown apart, and one of the other lead hunters had been injured, giving them their best chance to get away. Carlos was already running and Faith quickly joined him.

They made it to the warehouse without further incident.


	7. The Cathedral

Chapter Seven

The Cathedral

It should be noted that Harry Potter seldom engaged in a process of self-reflection. It was one of those traits that he had rid himself of as a matter of survival in the adverse environment of the Dursley home. As a child trying to survive, Harry had had relatively few options open to him. Capable of inferring his relative status in the house, even before he could fully understand the meaning of the word "freak", the unconscious part of his mind had begun the not inconsiderable task of reorganizing itself in order to generate the optimal coping strategy for its young charge. In order to prevent himself from becoming a docile, weak-minded little Huffelpuff, Harry eradicated his self-concept. Simply put, Harry didn't concern himself with how others conceived of him. He did not permit the impressions of others to guide his actions. If he had, then he would have taken all the abuse and scorn heaped upon him by the Dursleys during his tender, formative years and internalized it. He would have become a lump of dough.

Instead, the perceptions of others simply bounced off him. That is not to say that Harry didn't react to praise or to scorn. He did. It just meant that praise and scorn did not change him. That is why his fame never went to his head, and that is why he had such violent reactions to both said praise and said scorn when he was forced to acknowledge them. He could not acclimatize to the way others thought of him. It was the reason he was so sound in his conviction that Sirius was being tortured at the DOM. The opinions of others did not guide him. Paradoxically, it meant that forcing Harry Potter to do something was nigh impossible, and that manipulating him was child's play.

It was this final realization after the DOM that made Harry do what he had unconsciously bred himself to not do for the past decade. He had to think long and hard about who he was. In those soft summer days at Privet Drive, staring out the window while he went about shredding his DADA textbooks with a pair of scissors, Harry had reflected on just how skilled Dumbledore and Voldemort were at manipulating others. Sure, power got you pretty far, but alone, it would never get you the top position. Minister of Magic. Chief of the Wizengamet. Dark Lord.

For those kinds of positions, you needed cunning. Money helped too.

Harry wasn't prepared to delude himself into thinking that he could outwit Albus Dumbledore or Lord Voldemort. They had decades of experience, transmuted into overwhelming spheres of influence; not to mention keen intellects through which to utilize those experiences. The best Harry could hope for would be to slip underground. Disappear. Enjoy a life of utter seclusion in ignominy, away from the roots he had built in the British wizarding community. He might even have to go all muggle. Certainly the European wizarding communities would be out of the question, and probably all the English speaking ones as well. This left him with very few options, though he was confident that it wasn't all hopeless. The prophecy said that neither one could live while the other lives. Harry wasn't prepared to take that line literally. He wasn't even sure how much stock he took in it at all. It's not as though he were in danger of spontaneously combusting if he failed to kill Voldemort by his seventeenth birthday.

If the prophecy were to have any meaning at all, it would either be the case that circumstances would conspire to bring Harry and Voldemort into a confrontation that would lead to one killing the other, or, that, so long as they both lived, neither would be able to achieve a certain level of success in the pursuit of their respective goals. The latter interpretation seemed dubious. For the most part, Harry had enjoyed the last five years of his life. Sure, he had shitty moments, but didn't everybody? Despite having been scared witless by the Triwizard Tournament, he had still enjoyed it immensely. He had exalted in the feeling of besting the Hungarian Horntail, just as he had felt exhilaration by getting the Triwizard Cup with Cedric. But then again, perhaps it was simply the case that Harry's victories were inexorably tied with Voldemort, and that, more often than not, they grated against Voldemort's endeavours, tainting his successes with loss. But Harry couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he simply threw down the gauntlet and joined Voldemort. Didn't the prophecy rely on Harry and Voldemort having incongruous personality profiles? Was the prophecy simply relying on the likelihood that Harry would feel enmity towards the murderer of his parents? But then it occurred to Harry that the prophecy really predated his parents' murder altogether. Voldemort never would have even targeted the Potters if it hadn't been for the prophecy in the first place. The strength of it - its meaning had only grown out of the content infused in it by Lord Voldemort.

It made Harry wonder: if a prophecy falls in the forest, and no one's around to hear it, does it necessarily come true?

The answer to that question was simply: no. Unless, of course, everything's rigged so that Voldemort did hear the prophecy. The entire project smacked of higher beings pulling strings, and that was something that Harry found he didn't like. He had always resented authority, and the idea that there was some kind of super authority, something several orders of magnitude above his understanding grated against his entire sense of individuality. Briefly, Harry considered just trying to obliviate Voldemort and himself. And Dumbledore, for good measure. And maybe he ought to kill Trelawney just for safety's sake. Voila, no prophecy.

Assuming that he didn't go down the road of trying to evade the prophecy, Harry still found himself faced with some issues. The first was that it appeared that Voldemort was the one doing all the instigating. Since the start of the whole prophecy fiasco, it had been Voldemort who was the one trying to kill Harry. Not once, not ever, had Harry tried to do the Dark Lord in. Which made sense, given that he was just a kid and that he had learned of the prophecy a mere two months ago. Still, it rubbed him the wrong way that, since he was apparently the big bad bogeyman's equal, he still was the one playing mouse in the relationship. Shouldn't he be just as much of a predator as the Dark Lord? And yet it was laughable to think that he could.

There was something about the way that Voldemort and, to the same extent, Dumbledore, used magic that differed from the way other people used magic. It wasn't even power so much, though Harry recognized that both Voldemort and Dumbledore had that in spades. It was something else. They both had a level of finesse, or perhaps the right word was control. Back in the graveyard, Voldemort had used magic to force Harry to bow. Harry knew of no spell that could do such a thing. And that was the crux of the matter. What Voldemort did with his wand was not limited to the admittedly vast array of spells out there. No, he simply willed something to happen, and he had used his magic to effectuate that will. And that was something completely different from what Harry and his friends were learning in school. There was a flexibility to magic, a fluidity about it that Harry could only barely conceive of. Despite all his studies with Kingsley, he had really only scratched the surface of what it meant to wield magic. Sure, Harry could conjure fire. He could actually conjure quite a bit of it, assuming he had his wand, of course, but to enjoy the control that would allow him to transform that fire into a tightly coiled whip capable of lashing out and searing anything in its path was beyond him, And Harry didn't even want to think about the kind of control that would be necessary to actually lasso another wizard, the way Dumbledore had done at the Ministry of Magic. And then, on top of that, to see transfiguration on the level of transforming that very same whip a magical elemental conjuration, into a giant snake...

It frustrated Harry.

And to top it off, the only time he had ever seen anything remotely comparable to the control exhibited by the two most powerful wizards in England was Faith, of all people. Somebody who couldn't even be classified as a witch. Ever since he had met her, he had been irritated by her. It was more than just the fact that his unicorn danger sense found her loathsome. It was her unbridled arrogance. Her seeming lack of attention. Her erratic behaviour. Still, when push came to shove, she knew how to control whatever magic was bestowed upon her with incredible precision, and Harry was slowly coming to accept that it was that fact, and that fact alone, that made her so formidable. As far as powers went, hers weren't unusual. Harry estimated that she was about as resistant to magic as an adult werewolf, which meant that three or four simultaneous stunners from professionals could take her down. He suspected her powers increased when she was in a murderous rage. The reductor curse he had hit her with was an order of magnitude above the stunner, and it hadn't even knocked her down. He would probably caution at least six solid stun hits just to be safe. Whatever the case, the simple fact was that she could go from shaking your hand to crushing it within a tenth of a second and she could do so while maintaining complete control over her faculties and her capabilities. It had become clear to Harry when he had been sword fighting her what she was trying to do. She had been trying to coax his magic to the surface. It hadn't worked, as far as he could tell, but, despite that, he had learned a valuable lesson anyway. He had been watching her twirl, and duck and dodge and utilize her weapon in the myriad of ways that she knew how, and he had come to realize the power that was simmering underneath the surface of her skin, and, more importantly, the overwhelming, omnipresent control that she exerted over that power. It was fused with her very being. It was something that she had embraced on some visceral level, and which had become a part of her, like her very skin. It had molded to her mind, body and soul.

All that mattered was that her energy - her magic, for lack of a better term - it was always there, waiting to be used, conveniently able to be called upon at a moment's notice, with the merest thought. Chances were, her magic was so finally tuned to her needs that it knew before she herself consciously registered need of it, and so performed all the operations she needed of it in real-time - the very instant it was needed. Without delay. It was that which made her so formidable, and it was that which she had been trying to communicate to him. Despite all his powers, Harry lost precious seconds drawing his wand, focusing his magic, saying incantations, calling his magic, releasing a portion of it, and then clamping back down upon it. It was tedious, and cumbersome and it made Harry look like an idiot.

A day ago, Harry would have been envious. But not now. Not now that he understood Faith a bit better. In her world, you couldn't sacrifice speed like that. It would get you killed. It would get you killed, because your enemies would use that time to smack you down. No, you couldn't sacrifice that speed. Even if it meant sacrificing other things.

That's what disgusted Faith so deeply about Harry's use of his wand. It hadn't been the case that she had been blind to the incredible array of things that Harry could do with it. Nor was it the case that she was envious at his abilities, like he had thought at one point. No, it was that she had assessed his abilities in the context of her own experiences fighting vampires and demons, and she found his skills lacking. The ability to disappear and reappear at will, to repair shattered objects, to conjure and transfigure and charm were all very useful abilities in their own right, but they meant little if you were dead before you could do it. And Harry realized that that was the way a person like Faith assessed everything. In terms of the speed and efficiency with which you could kill or be killed.

It was a rather disconcerting feeling to be found lacking in an area that Harry thought he was pretty good in, though if he were honest with himself, he had already been aware on some visceral level about these kinds of problems. He himself had been frustrated by the seemingly endless list of curses that could be used to incapacitate or kill somebody. The good old, Goddamned spleen expulsion curse. What use was a million lethal curses if they all suffered the same weakness? Even the big bad AK. Even with Voldemort's ever-feared killing curse, there was enough time for Harry to recognize the curse and for Fawkes to swoop down and intercept it. The curse couldn't have been travelling more than twenty metres per second. While that was nothing to sneer at, no wizard was going to manage to take down more than a few oncoming assailants before succumbing, whether it be other wizards, slayers or other magical creatures.

Surely, there had to be a better way. Not all magic was so slow. Like the animagus transformation. Many of Faith's questions had started making cracks in Harry's preconceptions about the way magic operated. Magic could transport people instantaneously across vast distances. It could conjure objects out of nothing, transform things from one to another. These were not mere parlour tricks. These things could easily redefine everything that muggles knew about the world. These things, if muggles were to attempt, would require a battery of super advanced technology hundreds of years away. Most likely it would be impossible to replicate at all, and, at the very least, would require enormous amounts of energy to perform. So where was all this mystical energy? Was it all really inside him? Why wasn't there a better way to use it? Why did he need a wand?

It was hardly the case that magical creatures needed wands. Not dragons, not unicorns, not phoenixes, not dementors. But then again, they couldn't do a million and one different things with their magic. Sure, phoenixes were immortal and all that, but they couldn't cast spells. Couldn't they? They did have the ability to lighten objects that they came into contact with, which seemed suspiciously like the Featherlight Charm. But as far as Harry knew, they could only do that through physical contact, whereas wizards, with the aid of wands, were capable of doing it at a distance. Moreover, it seemed that, despite having relatively few abilities at their disposal, magical creatures were particularly adept at those abilities that they did have. Phoenixes, for example, were capable of apparating even through the strongest anti-apparition wards. And dementors were capable of using some form of hyperlegilimancy to consume people's memories. The more Harry thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that humans sacrificed something in order to enjoy the multitude of magical powers that they wielded. There was a cost to being able to transfigure, charm, ward, enchant, shapeshift and do all the other things that they were able to do.

All of Harry's musings on his life and magic and the world were roaming about his head in a sort of free-for-all. He was having a difficult time putting the pieces together to form a comprehensive picture of the situation. In this respect, Harry was a lot like slayers. He was good at the low-level logical analyses, like tactics, but when it came to the more abstract games, involving strategy, he was rubbish. That was why he found himself tied to a tombstone in a graveyard witnessing the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, and why, simultaneously, he was the person most qualified to escape. It was also, perhaps, why he meshed so well with the unicorn psyche.

After having been dissuaded from going out in search of Faith, Harry had been keen on getting to Umbrella central. However, Jill had managed to talk him into joining her on her crusade to secure some sort of artifact that would gain them access into the deeper recesses of Umbrella's research facility. Part of the reasoning was that the cathedral was safer at the moment and Harry really needed to have a bit of time practising hunting zombies. Harry wanted to explain that he had the power to do line of sight apparation, and that he could transform into a winged horse with a wickedly sharp horn perfectly capable of skewering zombie heads, but something in the way Jill looked at him held him back. Possibly he was detecting through latent legilimancy some sort of anxiousness or perhaps disquiet. Whatever it was, it was alerting him to some possible danger in telling Jill.

Overall, she seemed nice enough, but Harry had to remind himself that she was still a muggle, and that she was operating in an extremely hostile environment. It was hardly the kind of situation in which to spring the existence of the magical world on her. It was possible that she would simply refuse to accept the facts and do something irrational in order to cling to whatever semblance of logic still helped her make sense of her world. That irrational act may very well have included putting a bullet in Harry's brain. While Harry was certain he could avoid such a fate for the moment, he didn't want to have yet another enemy at his heels. Especially not one that was capable of sniping him in the back.

"Yes, that's correct. Keep your feet shoulder-length apart. The recoil's going to go through your hand, along your arm and down through your legs into the ground. You need to make it as easy as possible for this to happen. Otherwise, your hands are going to cramp up by the twentieth shot., and your shoulders won't be far behind. Keep your wrists in line."

"Gotcha," Harry said, nodding and putting both his feet in the required position. It felt strange, holding a gun, he had to admit. Harry had become so accustomed to carrying a wand that the weight, the feel, the size, the texture, the dormant power locked inside the clip had an unreal quality to it. He thought he was doing a pretty good job adjusting, despite it all.

"Good, good," Jill said, surveying his form. "Don't lock your elbows. You want to absorb the impact in your muscles, not your joints. That's better. All right, now you're going to aim." Jill pointed to the cocking hammer and a small nub on the top of the barrel's end. "This here will help you line up your target. Ideally, you want both the hammer and the pointer to line up. The gun should remain level with your gaze."

A zombie across the hall noticed them for the first time. Harry had been waiting for the thing to finally catch their scent or turn around, or do whatever it is they did to ferret out their prey. Now it was stumbling toward them, clumsily navigating a table and chairs that were in its way. It moaned its atonal, haunting moan. Harry had yet to be inured to the sound.

"Take it away," Jill said, stepping back and gesturing at the approaching zombie.

"Here goes nothing," Harry muttered, acutely aware of the severely limited amount of ammunition they had available to train him. He was prepared to make every round count.

Harry fired. And then blinked.

The report was loud. Louder than he had expected, though his dismay at the decibel level was mitigated by his relief that the recoil wasn't as bad as it was going to be. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that even wand spells had a bit of kick.

Jill whistled. "Nice shot."

Harry had not only managed to hit the zombie in the head, but the bullet had punched right through the creature's left eye, cracking the ocular bone and driving itself directly through the ganglion nerve patch, the pressure deflecting it eight degrees so that it angled toward the center of the brain, nicking the vein that connected the right and left hemispheres together. blood began to spurt copiously in its head, the bullet drilling into the back wall of the skull but not quite having the force to punch through. The zombie, once female and with thick, matted chestnut hair, staggered about, its one good eye rolling into the back of her head as blood began to pour out of its other socket.

"Yeah," Harry said, only now, after a few seconds having passed, did his body begin secreting adrenalin and other hormones to signal that he was queued up. He lowered the gun, his hands trembling slightly, though from what he knew not. He certainly didn't feel bad for having killed the zombie. He had killed others in much more intimate and gruesome ways, often at the tip of his unicorn horn, which had proven capable of skewering bone like it were hot butter. There was something clinical and merciless and cold about guns, he decided. Harry understood what it meant to kill with a sword. He even understood what it meant to kill with a wand, though he had yet to do such a thing. Swords were tangible, just as killing curses were. You could see them coming; you could feel it in your bones when that green light surrounded you, promising an end to the world as you knew it. But this business with guns was a whole other animal. Pulling the trigger was too quick, too innocuous, too disconnected from the act of killing itself. You didn't get to feel the impact of the bullet as it met fierce resistance in the form of flesh and bone. You just pulled the trigger, and blinked and the thing was dead. It was so easy, Harry thought he could probably do it all day.

Jill was packing up her belongings and shrugging her shoulder pack onto her shoulder. "Come on," she said. "Lucky thing you're a natural."

Jill's words jolted Harry from his reverie. "Yeah," he said, "a natural." He then turned his attention elsewhere. "So you've dealt with this stuff before, then?" Harry asked, seeking to settle on something that might give him greater insight into Jill Valentine. They began making their way up the top flight of stairs to the bell chamber.

"Yeah. My team was called in to do some follow-up at this old mansion outside the city. We'd lost contact with one of our units."

"And the guys at Umbrella covered it up," Harry said, hitting on the sad end to the story. "That's pretty shitty."

Jill shrugged, as though it mattered little to her. But Harry could tell that the zombie infestation was eating her up inside. There was a tightly coiled, seething miasma of hatred inside Jill Valentine. It was one of the things that made Harry distinctly uneasy about her.

"And there's apparently a bunch of mercs running around?" Harry asked.

Jill nodded.

"And they're from Umbrella," Harry concluded thoughtfully.

Jill began fussing with some sort of broken music box. At first, Harry couldn't understand why she was bothering, until he recalled that the scientists at MedGen were supposed to be absolutely psychotic when it came to securing entrances at key points in their facility. Eventually, Jill managed to rig the box to play the tune as it should, and sure enough, the sound of a soft click indicated that Jill had indeed uncovered something. Part of the music box gave way, revealing a key, which Jill quickly scooped up and looped onto a chain around her neck, neatly tucking the key under her shirt so that it was completely invisible.

"I know what you're thinking," Jill said. "I don't trust the mercs either. But I'll take their help as long as they're offering it. If they want to double cross me afterwards, well, I'll just have to make sure I'm quicker on the draw."

Harry nodded. That made sense. And they certainly won't be expecting me, he thought.

Harry and Jill were currently in an anteroom to the bell chamber. It was bare save for the desk with the music box and a few crates, onto which moonlight was spilling down from a hole in the ceiling. there was a ladder conveniently located to one side. "You reckon there's any point going topside?" Harry asked, taking care to keep his voice low. Jill glanced at the ladder and then at the hole in the ceiling, giving them both a thoughtful look.

"I don't know," Jill said. "The room seems to be untouched. I doubt there was a fight here. Probably it "hasn't been used since before the shit hit the fan."

Harry went over to the ladder and nudged it with his toe. "Yeah, maybe. But the ladder's not where it's supposed to be. Looks like someone climbed up and then knocked it over."

"Like maybe they were trying to find a hiding spot," Jill said, nodding. "And where there's hiding spots, there's bound to be ammunition."

Harry turned to face Jill and scrutinize her. "Actually, I was thinking there might be someone in need of our help," he returned calmly. Harry was starting to find that he didn't care much for Jill's attitude. She was turning out to be a bit too cold-hearted for his tastes. Sure, she had faced zombies before, and sure her town had been turned into an abomination. But really, it was hardly the end of the world. Shit happens. Suck it up.

"if someone were up there, they would have heard us by now. We wouldn't be wasting our time playing this guessing game."

Harry knelt and lifted the ladder so that it was neatly positioned to thrust whoever climbed it up through the square hole in the ceiling. Feeling a momentary bout of bravery, Harry climbed it swiftly, using the one wand spell at his disposal, the Featherlight charm to lighten him sufficiently that he could duck and dodge with speed enough to avoid a claw swipe.

He wasn't sure whether Jill was following up the ladder, but he didn't care. He was surprised to see how spacious the cathedral roof was. He'd expected a barren, wood plateau no more than a hundred square feet. But the roof was at least eight hundred, measuring about fifteen to twenty feet in any direction. There was a modest but well-kept garden of plants and flowers thriving in numerous pots. Harry went over and inspected the nearest one, careful not to approach too closely. He didn't know whether his danger sense was capable of identifying carnivorous zombie plants.

He heard Jill heft herself up from behind him, but did not turn around. The sound of her footsteps slightly fading told him she had gone off in another direction.

Harry glanced up at the stars, and, to his delight, he could make them out almost as though he were at Hogwarts. Stargazing had never really been his thing, but now, standing atop a glorified church in an American Midwestern town, Harry felt once again that pang for his only true home. Even though Hogwarts was very far away, he couldn't help but let himself be lost in memories of nights spent under Professor Sinistra's impassive gaze, he and Ron and Hermione each having their own telescopes for observing the cosmos. He couldn't think of a single interesting memory from any of his Astronomy classes, short of his O.W.L. exam, where his Head of House, Professor McGonagall took four professional stunners to the chest.

"There's nothing here," Jill said, sidling up next to Harry and glancing at him askance. Whatever spell had drawn him back to Hogwarts for those brief moments was broken. He pulled his gaze away from the night sky, acutely aware that Jill was observing him, no doubt making mental notes, calculating, contemplating, trying to understand Harry's psyche.

"Yeah, nothing here."

"You don't want to go back down," Jill stated.

Harry didn't affirm or deny her statement, not that he needed to. "That obvious?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't want to either. It's nice up here. Quiet. Peaceful. But it's an illusion. It's just the eye of the storm, and if we stay, we'll be swept up when it moves on."

"I know," he replied. "I wasn't honestly contemplating staying. It just takes a bit to absorb, you know?"

Jill did not respond. Harry glanced her way to see if she had registered his last statement at all. In the moonlight, with her face lit by the glow of city lights down below, he could see her face drain of colour. He followed her gaze to the street level, which was at least sixty feet, possibly a hundred down below. The cars looked like ants and humans would have been impossible to spot in the penumbra of streetlights. But Nemesis' form was unmistakable. He was dashing into the cathedral.

"Did he see us?" Harry asked.

"No," Jill responded. "He must have found the dead bodies. It's possible it's just a random search."

"But not likely."

"No, not likely."

Harry pursed his lips and stared out at the dark skyline. For a moment, he just revelled in the injustice of it all. Nemesis had been dogging them every step of the way, and for the life of him, he could not come up with a plan of attack to deal with it. His suspicion that Nemesis was specifically targeting Jill had developed into certainty. Why it was doing so was still a bit of a mystery, but he had a suspicion about that as well.

Still, none of that really resolved his dilemma. Guns were useless against this thing. The detonation of the train car had been nothing short of awesome and Nemesis had been at ground zero when it happened, and that had, as best as Harry could tell, destroyed the thing's arm. Which was small comfort, since it now had hideous, charcoal-coloured tentacles with barbed tips at its command.

Oh sure, Harry could apparate away and say good-bye to the wretched creature. That had always been an option, and still was. He wouldn't even have to go far. Fifty feet would suffice. The thing was only after Jill anyway, and Harry had only crossed paths with it because of that fact. It was even possible, that Harry could use the few meager magical abilities at his disposal to stun Nemesis long enough to escape with Jill. They might even get as far as a neighbouring building, go underground, hide out in a room somewhere. But the thing was, and Harry could see it clearly now, is that they could not evade Nemesis for long. Even Jill had to have realized this. They had been careful not to pass by any windows, where they might have been spotted. They avoided hitting light switches and making noise. Still Nemesis had found them. Presumably, it had tracked them using the few dead zombies Jill had left in her wake. The only reason they had managed this long in the cathedral was that it had taken time for Nemesis to collect himself after the train explosion. He would be harassing them every ten minutes unless they found a permanent solution to deal with him. And with odds like that, Harry doubted they would survive for long.

So Harry was faced with a dilemma. He could either keep running, in which case he would have to employ all his skill and knowledge to making it out of the cathedral with Jill alive, only to have to deal with Nemesis once again in the very near future, possibly under better conditions, possibly not. Or he could make a stand here, and use all his skill and knowledge to stop Nemesis once and for all, possibly failing and dying in the process.

Harry mentally catalogued the magical skills that he did have access to, though strangely enough, he found that he was not wishing for his wand so much. He could see at least a few instances where he would have lost it, or where it would have been destroyed. He was starting to accept that a wand was not that great for either close-up slugging matches, or any situation where reducing response time was critical. Having had enough experience with Nemesis, Harry was certain that, should he have a wand, he could safely deal with the hulk, but he also recognized that it did not solve the fundamental, underlying problem. Harry was ill-equipped to walk into a hostile situation and subdue an unknown opponent. He lacked the speed, the agility, and the endurance to withstand a surprise attack long enough to bring the full force of his tactical processing skills to bear in order to calculate a resolution to the problem. Nemesis was excellent at setting the terms of the engagement. He orchestrated the battles so that they were in confined spaces, in close quarters, where he could maximize his skill set. Nemesis was a Slytherin. It was exactly the kind of thing that Voldemort did. Voldemort never charged out and attacked Harry on his own turf. He always drew Harry out, leading him to his own lair, where he was the master. He did it in second year, he did it in his fourth and again at the DOM. And Harry kept falling for it, always snapping up the clues, thinking his analyses were his own, never realizing that all his thoughts were being predicted, accounted for, even manipulated. That was the magnitude of the battle he was facing against the Dark Lord.

And here, Harry was having difficulty surviving against Nemesis. In both the Chamber of Secrets and in the graveyard after the tournament, Harry had been rendered wandless. Only fortune had allowed him to survive. He could not expect his luck to last, and he could not expect that he would become skilled enough to retain his wand in every encounter. Wands were fragile. Ron proved that in his second year. And most likely, Harry would have to endure a battery of tests, struggles, encounters with formidable foes of all kinds before he ever managed to face down the Dark Lord. He would likely have to take on multiple skilled Death Eaters, like Bellatrix Lestrange. The thought of her still infuriated him, not just because she had been the one to knock Sirius into the veil, but because she had laughed at him in the atrium. She had been inhumanly fast. Slayer fast, now that he thought about it. Sure, his magic had ramped up his own performance specs,, but she had been in an entirely different league. She had said that her skills were the result of direct tutelage from Lord Voldemort, which meant that Lord Voldemort enjoyed the same superlative speed and agility, and God only knew what else. When Harry faced down Lord Voldemort, he was going to be facing an opponent whose abilities were not entirely known to him, and whose mental acuity was off the charts. Chances were, in an all out firefight, Lord Voldemort would learn about Harry faster than Harry would learn about Lord Voldemort, which meant that Harry had to come in fast and hard and negate any advantage that he would gain, either by demonstrating superior brute strength, or by catching him by surprise in a trap more elaborate than anything Voldemort could contemplate.

Harry's musings were drawn short by his danger sense. He could feel Nemesis drawing closer, making his way up the main steps of the cathedral to the second landing, slowly and inevitably marching towards them. Jill was frantically arranging flower pots, obviously with some sort of strategy in mind, though Harry couldn't see it.

Part of him wanted to just say, "fuck it," and take Nemesis on, consequences be damned. It was the same attitude that drove Buffy to take the slayer potentials into the vineyard. Another part of Harry, however, knew that he needed time to figure things out. At the moment, Nemesis clearly enjoyed the advantage. Neither Jill nor Harry had weapons capable of stopping Nemesis in his tracks. That could change, possibly. Harry had only begun experimenting with his newfound talent to lighten his weight. During their jaunt through the cathedral, he had taken several moments to experiment with his ability, seeing if he could control the extent to which he effectuated the spell. Whenever he had cast magic previously, he had always put his entire effort into it. The idea of moderating his spells had never occurred to him, because he had never generated spells of sufficient strength that such a thing as moderation would become necessary. But now he needed it. It would do no good to negate his weight entirely. It would make him prone to being blown off his feet by an unsuspecting gust of wind.

As skilled as he might become with the application of the Featherlight charm, it was not something that was going to give him a significant advantage against Nemesis. It would make him a more difficult target, giving him speed and agility and a vertical jump that would make Faith envious, but it would not enable him to reliably defeat him. Possibly, he could manipulate the self-application of another spell, like the Flame-freezing charm, or possibly he could find a way to extend the spell past his own body. There were too many unknowns and what he needed was time. Time to practice, time to conduct tests, to figure out his own limits.

By now, Harry thought he had a pretty good idea what Jill was doing. Despite the darkness, he could see the mix of resolve and fear stretched across her flushed face. She was going to use herself as bait and try to trip Nemesis over the edge with the pots. Even if it worked, which Harry doubted, Nemesis would surely take Jill with him. Not that he thought it would work. Jill was too panicked to think straight.

"You, go hide over there," she commanded, pointing to a particularly deep pool of shadow in the far corner.

"You're going to sacrifice yourself to save my life?" Harry asked incredulously. He decided he would have to redo his estimation of Jill before the day was out.

"He's coming," she said quietly. "You need to hurry."

Harry shook his head. This was nuts. She needed to know that he was capable of surviving an assault by Nemesis. Even if all his survival consisted of was apparating away, she needed to know. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

"We don't have time for this," she whispered. They could both hear Nemesis stalking about in the bell chamber.

"Do you trust me?" Harry asked, pinning her with his gaze.

Whether Jill was curious where Harry was going with his question, or whether she just wanted to get him to cooperate, Harry did not know. She said, with more than a bit of hesitation. "Yeah, I trust you." And then, as an afterthought, she added, "Somewhat."

"Come here," Harry said.

"We don't have time for this," she responded, but she complied nevertheless.

Harry pointed to the setup she had with the pots and then shook his head. "Won't work." He quickly raised a finger to stall her objections. "Nemesis won't waste his time climbing the ladder. He's tall enough that he can just smash the boards out from under us. We don't stand a chance up here."

The resolve waned from Jill's expression. She turned and gazed forlornly between the hole with the ladder and the collection of pots she had arranged, realizing that Harry was correct. The ladder probably wouldn't have supported Nemesis' weight anyway. "I don't want to die," she said finally, turning to Harry.

"Take my hand."

Jill did as Harry instructed, and Harry knew that she was taking his instructions not on faith or trust, but because she had simply run out of options. Like so many others caught in a desperate situation, she was willing to believe in miracles, if it meant retaining hope. Harry just prayed he could give her the miracle they both needed, instead of plummeting them to their deaths. Harry knew that, in some capacity, he could employ the Featherlight charm on another person through physical contact. He knew this not only because he knew that Fawkes could do it, but also because he had done it once before. When he and Faith had escaped from a crowd of zombies on the street, Faith riding him in his animal form, Harry had used his wings to lift himself off the ground and fly. It had been for just a few seconds, but long enough to tell him that he had to have transferred some magic to Faith in order to give his wings the latitude they needed to do their thing.

Now he just prayed that he would be able to do the same thing, while fully conscious and in his human form. Otherwise, there wouldn't be enough left of either of them for Nemesis to stomp on. But since the dying was already a foregone conclusion, he wasn't too troubled by that certain element of risk. Besides, he knew he could do it, just the way he knew he could drive those little beads back into Voldemort's wand. He didn't realize it, but he was queuing up to use magic, the way he did whenever he sensed a brawl coming.

There was an all too familiar roar from beneath them somewhere, and, then, sure enough, as Harry had predicted, a fist came barreling through the wooden boards where the pots had been placed, chunks of wood flying out in all directions, revealing Nemesis' reptilian, leather hand.

"Here goes nothing," Harry muttered, embracing Jill as one might a lover, and then reducing his weight as low as he dared take it, before leaping off the building, using his wings to strengthen his jump. Jill cried out, and Harry felt her jerk in his arms, gravity trying to drag her down. They both plummeted, Harry's wings slowing them enough that the ground did not rush up to meet them as quickly as it should have. The burst of adrenalin that hit him was instantly transmuted into a magical discharge that swiftly enveloped Jill. Harry tried to memorize that feeling of magic suffusing his body for that brief moment, before it left him, causing Jill's arms to break out in gooseflesh.

Jill just clung to Harry for dear life, her face buried in his shoulder, her legs wrapped tightly around his as they dropped the last ten feet to the pavement. Their landing was much cleaner than Harry's had been when he had leapt onto the train. He had learned to keep his wings partially extended to manipulate the air resistance and provide for a more controlled descent. They touched down gently, with no more force than if they had simply been jumping up and down.

Harry reluctantly let go of Jill, the energy used to reduce her weight dissipating into the cool air between them. Jill blinked away the moment of confusion before first gazing at Harry and then glancing upward. Harry followed her line of vision and saw Nemesis silhouetted against the darkness, gazing down at them, his body motionless and serene like a statue.

"We'd best hurry," she said quietly, regaining her composure and beginning the arduous task of reassessing their position and making plans, counterplans, and everything else they needed to survive. Harry just let her do that, continuing to stare up at Nemesis, who merely stared back.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what it was thinking. Was it feeling the loss of its prey just as acutely as Harry was feeling success? Was it baffled? Was it trying to figure out how they had managed to get down to street level? Or maybe it too was quietly assessing, developing plans, building the next stratagem for zeroing in on its targets. Even though they hadn't delivered a deathblow to Nemesis - even if all they had done was run away, Harry couldn't help but feel a great sense of pride, of righteousness, and of success, as though the tables had somehow just turned. They were no longer mere prey, scrambling to duck and dodge and twist out of the way at every turn, hoping and fearing and looking back over their shoulders. Harry had pulled a rabbit out of his hat. He had surprised Nemesis, and Jill, and, most of all, himself.

We can do this, he thought, his eyes glittering in the lamplight with smug satisfaction. We can do this.

With that, they continued their trek towards Umbrella, Nemesis disappearing from atop the cathedral roof and making his way down. He would reach the streets in under three minutes, but neither Harry nor Jill would be anywhere to be seen.


	8. Slayer and Soldier

A/N: Hi all,

If there's one thing that is common to author's notes across fanfictions, it's that authors are always begging for reviews. if there's a second, it's that they're apologizing for delays. It's kind of funny when authors who do both get irritated when people review only to ask for updates.

I just thought I would share that with you.

Cheers,

EB

p.s. Sorry for the delay.

Chapter Eight

Not being relentlessly pursued by Nemesis made Faith's life considerably easier than Harry's. It didn't hurt that Carlos had an assault rifle.

At first, Faith had been uneasy about leaving Harry amidst the wreckage. She knew he could take care of himself, but his magical abilities wouldn't do him a lot of good if he were unconscious. However, she had to abandon any program that involved going after him. One glance through a second story window clearly told her that there were way too many critters swarming the wreckage for leftover meat. Whatever guilt she had for starting in on him or for breaking his wand did not extend far enough for her to get herself killed in an ill-advised rescue stunt. Still, she felt distinctly uneasy turning away from that window and Following Carlos through a side entrance and down alleyway after alleyway, slowly and inevitably maneuvering their way towards the Umbrella corporation.

Carlos was a nice enough individual. Faith supposed she could do worse, though his not-so-subtle come-ons were starting to piss her off. Not to mention the fact that he had a bad habit of calling her "lady".

"Hey, lady, slow down!" he said, trotting along behind her. Faith just rolled her eyes. Umbrella was barely two blocks away now and the first rays of summer sunshine were creeping towards them. Faith guessed it was in the neighbourhood of three in the morning, which meant that she and Harry had been there for nearly twelve hours. Funny, that it seemed longer.

Strangely enough, Faith found herself wishing Harry were with her. For all their differences, there were things that connected them together. They both had a tendency to brood. They also had moments of cruelty and selfishness, and they also had moments of kindness and self-sacrifice. In other words, they were both just a little bit fucked up.

Besides, he had interesting stories, and she didn't have to hold back with her powers. In fact, she had kind of enjoyed showing off, just as he had done. It had not been lost on her that they had each been trying to show up the other with their unique magical talents, both trying a little too hard and neither quite succeeding. She had a feeling that Harry saw her as some kind of a brute, which, in all fairness, she kind of was.

Carlos, on the other hand, was mindlessly chipper. It tended to grate on her nerves, much like the way the Scoobies had when she had first met them. Especially Willow, whose life had been just a little too Sesame Street for Faith. In theory, Willow had some sort of a supposed brush with darkness, but Faith had her doubts. It was the formative years that made you what you were; that created that golden little core of goodness that Watchers talked endlessly about. It took a lot more than the loss of a single loved one to twist that goodness into something depraved. Just as it took a lot to untwist it back. And even then, what you once were could never be quite undone. It stayed with you; an eternal imprint. A forever craving.

Faith crept through yet another dark alley, careful not to step on any detritus that might give her position away. From her vantage point she could now make out a slew of zombies milling aimlessly about. Some of them were perfectly still, giving them the appearance of being statues. But Faith was not fooled. She still remembered the jolt of surprise that ran through her when a zombie had burst out of a closet. She had been shocked into momentary stupefaction, which had given the zombie enough of an opportunity to claw at her. One of the key features in the slayer package was superb durability. She could take a direct punch from a vampire to the face and shrug it off without so much as blinking. That was why it had distinctly unnerved her that the zombie had been so readily able to slash at her flesh, leaving claw marks that it shouldn't have been able to do. They were a lot stronger than they looked. If it weren't for the fact that they were appallingly slow, they would have been a formidable enemy. The fact that Harry had been able to repel one and kill it while so injured back at the motel had taken on new meaning for her.

But there was something else that had been troubling her as well. Something that she wasn't quite ready to contemplate.

"Time to hack and slash," she said, silently readying her weapon. "Reckon there's another fifteen in the wings. I'll cut a swatch through one side and you slip around the other. We can meet up at the entrance and punch our way through."

But Carlos wasn't paying attention to her. Instead he was scouring the ground for something.

"Yo, Carlos," she whispered, snapping her fingers next to his ear. "Earth to Carlos, do you copy?"

"Yeah, yeah, found it," he muttered, kneeling and pulling a manhole cover out of its socket.

"What the hell?" she asked.

"There's a second entrance through the sewer tunnels, Carlos explained. "It takes us directly into the research facility."

"And why do we want to be going to the research facility?" Faith asked.

"There's stuff we gotta pick up," he replied, already climbing down into the tunnel. Faith had an urge to yank him back out and ask him some serious questions, but she sensed that nearby critters were starting to scope her out, and decided to clamp down on her frustrations for the moment. For the first time, she was starting to wonder why mercenaries were floating about in Raccoon City, and the conclusions she was reaching didn't give her a very comforting feeling.

"Stupid, Faith, real fucking stupid," she muttered, climbing down after him.

The sewers were a dark and unpleasant place, and it did not take them long to realize that they held creatures far more hideous than anything they had run across topside.

Faith threw herself to her knees, the muck of sewage climbing up to thigh-level as something whizzed through the air in the dark spaces above her head. Carlos fired a barrage of rounds upward, each one sparking in the blackness, temporarily blinding Faith's sensitive eyes.

"Stop that, Goddammit," she said, reaching out blindly and striking at Carlos' arm, causing him to stumble.

"Hey!" Carlos exclaimed, but Faith just slapped the water with her hand and said, "Shut the fuck up for one Goddamned second, will you?"

Something insect-like was crawling along the walls and ceiling and it had some sort of stinger. Faith lurched forward as the whip like protrusion passed by where her head had just been. Immediately, she rolled over and slashed outward to try and catch the creature where she thought its midsection would be. There was some sort of squelching noise and a spatter of blood and mucus wetted her hair, but the creature swiftly skittered out of range, and Faith felt the stinging lash of the creature's tongue on her forearm, leaving a nasty red gash and causing her to hiss and stumble backward so that she landed in the water.

"Faith," Carlos whispered. "You there?"

"Yeah?" Faith replied. "Still here." Still trying to get a fucking clue, she thought grimly before getting to her feet. soaked through in scum water and sporting multiple scrapes, Faith held her weapon out in front of her and pulled a page out of Star Wars. She closed her eyes and waited. See with your mind, she told herself before quieting her thoughts and waiting for the next round of her opponent.

In the extreme silence that settled over them, Faith cued her senses for the attack. The creature executed another slashing motion with its tongue, opting to attack from above. Faith was ready, and she managed to twirl the blade over her head with enough speed and ferocity that she severed the tongue from the creature. Something mildly acidic sprayed across her face, causing her to flinch and stumble yet again, and then, she heard the distinct, sharp whine of a creature in great agony. And under that, she heard it begin to growl.

"Oh fuck," she muttered. "I think I just made it angry."

"Come on," Carlos whispered, pulling on her shoulder and dragging her two steps before Faith followed suit. Both of them began running, as best they could through the rough terrain. Faith doubted they were making even three miles an hour in the darkness, but it didn't matter. Their survival was at stake. The creature took a moment to compose itself before skittering after them.

"Hurry," Faith whispered heatedly, glancing back and scanning for the creature, even though it was a futile gesture. The last thing she wanted was to get stabbed in the back while she was running from an enemy. It was more humiliation than her pride could take.

"Up ahead,' Carlos cried out, pointing to a red glow from an emergency light. "The code's 624."

"Gotcha," Faith bolted past him, not nearly as hampered by the darkness as Carlos, and immediately came upon the metal ladder that heralded their safety. She scaled it without a moment's thought, cringing when she heard the sound of gunfire behind her. She hit the key combination putting all her speed and strength behind it. There was the satisfying click of a door unlatching. Faith grabbed hold of the rungs with both her hands and rolled herself into a vertical handstand so that she could kick the hatch open and follow through with the rest of her body, her legs shooting through the hatch first, and then her torso so that she rocketed out of the sewer tunnel and flipped in midair to land on her feet. She drew her sword in one fluid motion from the makeshift scabbard she had at her side and glanced around, searching for danger.

Faith kicked the hatch shut and held a hand out to Carlos to help pick him up.

"You okay?" she asked.

He grimaced. "I'm alive."

"Yeah, you and me both."

"You reckon you know what to do from here?"

Carlos nodded. "Yeah, sort of."

Faith nodded. "All right. That's good enough for me. Lead the way."

Both soldiers began their slow limp towards freedom.

Unlike the executive levels of the Umbrella facility, the underground research levels were infested with all manner of carnivorous monstrosities. Moreover, these monsters came in all shapes and sizes, which meant that anyone traversing the facility had to be on constant alert for the next nightmare.

After forty-five minutes of careful navigating, Xander and Dawn had flushed out all the possible places where their friends could have been squirreled away. Between the records they had pilfered from the executive offices and their thorough search of the facility, they had to conclude that Buffy and the other slayers were not in Raccoon City.

"So now what?" Dawn said, staring down at the ground.

They were standing in a security room. It had been empty when they had arrived, though most of the security monitors were still functioning. It had been a boon in their search for their friends, because it allowed them to cover much of the facility without having to investigate each room. They also had been given an opportunity to profile several of the creatures running around, which meant that they were more or less ready for any one of them. Still, despite their incredible luck, they had turned up nothing, which had proven more discouraging than anything else.

Xander was currently trying to make heads or tails of what they had stolen from Woodyard's office. Some of it made no sense, and other pieces of information were trite or just plain wrong. What had become painfully clear, however, was that there were more research sites than just Raccoon City. The documents did not explicitly state where these other sites were, but they suggested that some were in other countries, and that there could have been as many as two dozen others. That was a lot of territory to cover, and a lot of sites to infiltrate.

The only good thing that came from it all was the acceptance that Buffy and Willow were most likely not dead. They were being experimented on, and that required them to be kept alive. And that meant that he would not give up the search.

"We've got to try and find a way out of here," Dawn said, staring out at the banks of monitors. Some sort of green ape-like creature was wrestling with a giant multi-tentacle plant. The plant seemed to be winning. One tentacle wrapped around the ape's neck and flexed its considerable muscle, snapping the bone so that the creature's head was jolted to one side. Still, however the creature fought on, gouging apart another tentacle with its claws, which in turn caused yellow pus to splash across the ape's fur. Pus that began chewing through its skin. Dawn shuddered.

In truth, Xander really had no idea how they were going to escape. They were pretty much at ground zero of a giant monster infestation. He was hungry and tired, as was Dawn, and he had sustained a number of cuts and scrapes. Dawn had a sprained ankle. He had to admit that they had been rather lucky in surviving as long as they had. The only reason they'd come so deep into monster territory was because of their firm conviction that their friends had been here. Both of them had expected, however consciously, that, when they had rescued Buffy and Willow and the others, that they themselves would have become de facto rescuees. Both of them had rested their hopes on Buffy and the others getting them out of the mess that they had gotten themselves into.

But now they were alone, and they had limited resources at their disposal. Xander wanted to simply wait in the security room, confident that they were safe, and simply hope that the city would be purged of monsters by the military. He had no desire to go back out there. Dawn, on the other hand,, wanted to simply get away as quickly and as fast as she could. In that respect, she reminded him of himself when he had been younger. Of course, she wasn't missing an eye. That one thing had given him perspective. It was easy to go out and die in a blaze of glory. Buffy had done it twice. It was another thing to go out and get maimed and then have to live with your stupidity for years afterward.

Before either of them could begin bickering over what action to take next, two things happened. Dawn had her attention drawn to the bank of security monitors, and Xander had his attention drawn to a small desk off to one side. An LED on the fax machine began blinking and, after a moment, it began spitting out paper. Xander crossed over to the machine, hoping against hope that some sort of good news would be forthcoming. After a quick survey, he realized that the machine was spitting out copies of the same page over and over again. Absently, he thought that it was a waste of paper.

He picked up a sheet and began scanning it, trying to slide past the more incomprehensible parts in his haste to get some information. By the time he made it to the bottom, the colour had drained from his face, and he wished he hadn't bothered checking at all. The document was full of code phrases that were meant for people who knew the business, but Xander was still capable of inferring the significance of what he was reading. Raccoon City was quarantined and targeted for eradication. The tactical strike would occur at 05:00.

Checking his watch, Xander saw that it was currently 03:30. They had one and a half hours to live. Xander let the paper drop from his hands. It makes no difference now, he thought sullenly. We can't escape even if we wanted to. It's not enough time to get out of the city.

"Hey, Xander, get over here and look at this."

Dawn had closed in on the monitors and was staring fixedly at two screens. Xander had an urge to make a scathing remark, but something in Dawn's expression stayed his tongue. She turned her gaze to him and said simply, "We're not alone."

Maybe they had a chance after all.

It was getting harder and harder for Faith to ignore. A roundhouse kick to the chest should have smashed the hunter's ribs, various internal organs and sent it sailing through the air. But instead, all it managed to do was crack a rib and cause the hulking ape to take a step back.

It was frustrating Faith to no end. Her powers were ebbing away, and a distinct feeling of lethargy was stealing over her. It was as though her magical powers were being drained. Carlos was just getting to his feet, a gash spilling blood across the side of his face. Two hunters had pincered them in a corridor, and if either of them had been alone, they would have been slaughtered. Instead, they had killed one and muscled their way into the control room, where the hunter had pursued them. Carlos had run out of ammunition on his magnum and had not had time to reload before the creature took a swipe at him. Faith had managed to maneuver herself between the creature and Carlos, and was now repelling it to the best of her abilities.

It should have been easy. This was the fifth hunter she had faced in Raccoon City. By now, her slayer programming should have been fed enough information to easily make minced meat out of the mutant gorillas, but that wasn't happening. She was putting in her best effort, and while she was still super strong, it wasn't the kind of strength that would leave someone like Carlos in awe of her abilities.

Faith ducked a swipe of the creature's claws and popped back up with another roundhouse. Hunters were several hundred pounds and were highly aggressive. They had the strength of a raging gorilla and could survive otherwise mortal wounds. At full strength, Faith could easily deck it with a punch that could snap its neck, but now, she dared not even try. Chances were, it would not even be fazed and would backhand her so hard she would be seeing stars. No, she had to play a defensive game and pray Carlos killed it off.

Two swift magnum rounds from her left and the creature staggered back. A wound had opened up in the side of its head, and gore was spilling out. The creature staggered drunkenly forward and collapsed face first. Faith was sweating like a bitch in heat and found herself staring at the hunter, deep in thought. Faith had been full of fear during her brutal career as a slayer. She had feared death from the master vampire that killed her watcher, Elizabeth. She had feared making friends and she had feared screwing up. She had feared disappointing Angel. And out of all that, she had finally accepted herself enough that she no longer feared any of those things. She had thought that there was, in fact, nothing left to fear. And now, with her powers ebbing away, she was being proven wrong.

Faith Lehane was terrified.

"Come on," Carlos said, breathing shallowly. The research facility was a nightmare freakhouse full of monsters of all kinds. They had learned the hard way that not even the local vegetation was your friend, when a plant tentacle had ripped Faith's sword right out of her hand and snapped it in half. But that was all right. They had arrived in the control room where they could get the necessary goods that Carlos had been instructed to get. From there, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to the chopper, whereupon they could ditch Raccoon City.

Carlos finished inputting some sort of pass code into a computer. A panel to the side slid open, revealing a series of glass vials. Quickly, Carlos began dropping the vials into individual steel tubes, that looked like cigar holders. Once he was finished with that, he began sliding each cylinder into a slot in a nearby briefcase, which, upon completion, he clicked shut and picked up. Testing its weight, he nodded to himself and turned to Faith. "All right. Let's go."

"What's that?" Faith asked, nodding in the direction of the briefcase.

Carlos shrugged. "Beats me, lady. I'm just following orders."

Faith narrowed her eyes and let Carlos walk by, content to let the issue go for the moment. there was no point getting into a fight over it now; not when she had other concerns. She had a pretty good idea that, whatever was in those vials was not the kind of thing you were going to find in a high school biology lab. Umbrella had gone to serious expense to extract those vials from this facility, and Faith wasn't prepared to simply let them walk away with it. But now was not the time. She still had her friends to find, though she was growing more and more skeptical of her ability to actually locate them. The research facility was vast, and riddled with monsters of all kinds, and something was happening to her that she couldn't quite understand. Though she had a suspicion. She hadn't really noticed it until she had dueled with Harry, and she had chalked it up to a side effect of his magic. She had seen the myriad of things he could do before, and wasn't prepared to rule anything out when it came to him. But the feeling had persisted long since past then, and it was growing worse. She was noticeably weaker. So much so that it wasn't even apparent that she was superhuman. Sure, she still had moves and strength that would impress someone, but not to the point where alarm bells would be going off in their heads. And there was no reason to expect that the decline in her powers would stop anytime soon. The only question that remained was whether it was going to leave her merely human or whether it was going to continue sapping her strength until it killed her. Though that was a bit of a false distinction, since being left merely human was practically a death sentence in Raccoon City.

The research facility was an incomprehensibly vast labyrinth to anyone who was not familiar with its internal organization. It boasted one hundred twenty-eight rooms of various sizes, spread out across three underground levels, and featuring security locks of all kinds. Some doors were electromagnetically sealed, while others sported simple padlocks. Some weren't locked at all, while others had had their locks wrenched apart. Worst of all, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the security protocols.

One thing that became clear during her trek through its many halls was that the slayers weren't there. While Faith had only managed to survey about half the facility, she had picked up too many clues to be ignored. The entire place was devoid of life. There wasn't a single human being that wasn't either a zombie or some poor, dismembered wretch. There weren't even any lab rats. All the critters had broken out of their cells. This was because virtually every cell had a backup protection in the form of an electrical barrier. Once the power fell, they were able to tear through their bars and begin wreaking havoc on the researchers. Presumably, slayers, who were the toughest of the bunch, would have been equally capable of liberating themselves during this initial onslaught. That was probably the biggest clue. Sure, the clowns at MedGen might have been able to catch ten slayers, which was no small feat, but they had done so primarily by catching them off guard. It would be a different story now.

In addition to the likelihood that the slayers would have freed themselves, Faith had not found any trace of their presence. She had taken a moment to flip through various sensitive documents as she and Carlos traversed the facility. She should have at least found something; even if it were a simple memo or some research notes. There should have been some indication in the internal administrative network that hinted at the presence of slayers. But Faith had found nothing in her scans, and it was unthinkable that they would maintain such a high level of radio silence in what was supposed to be a secure facility. The third reason that Faith believed the slayers were not in the complex was that there was no place for them. Carlos had a map of the place, and, from what she could infer between her own observations of the facility and from the map, there was no infrastructure set up for dealing with slayers, probing them, testing them, detaining them. The facility was designed to house microbiological specimens only.

That inescapable conclusion left Faith feeling uneasy. Where were her slayer sisters?

"So where exactly does one hide a helicopter in this place, soldier boy?"

"On the opposite side of the complex, the facility opens onto a ravine. A courtyard has been carved out, and that's where the chopper is. We just have to get to the far end of this final corridor, head down half another lane and then move up to the first level. From there, we should come onto a storage room that feeds into the courtyard. The chopper is boxed in on all four sides by bunkers that contain supplies of various types. I've been told that they shouldn't be compromised."

Faith nodded. Once they had made it past the control room, there had been surprisingly few critters. She supposed it made sense that they wouldn't have expanded to flush out all corners of the complex. There would be no point going to the periphery when the meet was bound to come in through the center.

She had to admit that she was going to be glad to escape Raccoon City once and for all. She did not relish spending any more time in the freak show than she had already. It was too John Carpenter for her tastes. She and Carlos made it to the bunkers without resistance. The room was dank and unused, which she supposed made sense. From what she understood, the chopper was more of a precaution borne out of military necessity than part of some operation parameter. Basically, it was designed for emergency purposes.

"I heard the neighbouring bunker's got an experimental rail cannon in it," Carlos commented.

"Yeah, why would they need something like that?" Faith asked.

"Probably to kill giant monsters."

Faith shrugged. "That's as good a reason as any, I guess."

The courtyard was less of a courtyard and more of a concrete slab. A dirty and dusty concrete slab. A McDonald's cheeseburger wrapper was plastered to the side of an overflowing garbage can in one corner. It seemed strangely out of place given the solitude evinced by the lone helicopter standing at the center.

But that's not what caught her attention. Some creepy looking bald guy was inspecting the engine. He stood slowly, and turned to greet them.

"Hello, Carlos," he said, almost cheerfully, in what Faith guessed was a Russian accent.

"Sir!" Carlos exclaimed. "You're alive!" Carlos proceeded to jog up to Nicolai, Faith reluctantly following.

"Indeed, I am, Carlos."

Faith couldn't help but notice that his gaze flickered to the case of vials that Carlos held in one hand. He's one of the fuckers in charge of this place, Faith thought, schooling her expression into one of neutrality. Nicolai then turned his attention to her. "And, you have brought a friend."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't just let her stay here," Carlos explained, gesticulating needlessly with his gun hand. "Besides, she's pretty good in a fight." And then, he added, "For a lady."

"Come then," Nicolai said, waving Carlos over. "It is important that we depart from this place as swiftly as possible. I have just been inspecting the craft, and it is in functioning order. I need only have waited for you."

"Sir, Mikhail-?"

"Is dead," Nicolai responded. "He did not survive an encounter with the beast."

Carlos hung his head in mourning for a moment before recomposing himself. "He was a good soldier."

"That he was," Nicolai responded, nodding to Carlos. "Come now. We must hurry."

Carlos proceeded to shake his head. "We can't go just yet, sir. There's others coming." Carlos checked his watch. "There's a civilian named Jill. I told her the chopper would remain until at least 4:30a.m. We need to wait. It's only a half hour. She's a police officer, and she seemed quite capable of getting here. It wouldn't be right to leave without giving her a chance."

Nicolai nodded, a thoughtful expression gracing his features. "4:30, you say?"

Carlos nodded. "Yes, sir."

Nicolai then shook his head. "I am afraid we cannot risk it. The entire city is scheduled to be eradicated at approximately 4:30. If we waited for your friend, we would not ourselves survive."

All the colour seemed to drain from Carlos' face. "Sir?"

"I am afraid we will have to go regardless," Nicolai affirmed. "The entire city is overrun by soulless abominations. We cannot chance the possibility that these creatures might escape into the wilderness and begin infecting civilians in neighbouring cities. The consequences would be disastrous."

After a moment's contemplation, Carlos nodded. "I understand."

"Hold up a sec," Faith said, raising one hand to make sure she was getting their attention. "This place is being bombed at 4:30?"

Nicolai fixed his gaze on her, and Faith got the sense that she were being appraised, the way a master vampire would appraise a slayer before a fight. Still, she ploughed on, ignoring the sensation for the moment. "And we've got a chopper that's fully functional, yeah? So, it's gotta have a radio, yeah? Why don't we just fly up, radio whoever you need to radio and have the bombs delayed. You know, a half hour. What difference does it make?"

Carlos smiled. "Yeah!" he exclaimed, punching the air enthusiastically. "That's brilliant, Faith. We should have no troubles radioing-"

Nicolai pulled out a .357 Smith & Wesson and put a bullet through Carlos' chest. Carlos was still grinning like an enthusiastic child for a full two seconds before his expression transformed into one of confusion, even as he staggered back, his brows knitted together as he gazed down at the bullet wound. The first thing he thought when he realized he'd been shot, even as shock was spreading outward through his system like an infection, was that the wound was surprisingly painless. It felt like somebody was pressing an icepack to his chest, and he supposed that it was the numbness setting in. Slowly though, it was being replaced by a burning sensation that was radiating out from the wound. He looked up at Nicolai's expression and saw that it had not changed. "Sir?"

It would take Carlos three minutes to lose consciousness and another five to experience brain death, but for all intents and purposes, he was already dead. He simply hadn't quite figured it out yet. Carlos staggered backward two steps, reached his arm out as if to pluck something from midair and then, as if having secured whatever imaginary object he was seeing, he proceeded to collapse in a heap on the ground.

Faith didn't need to be told twice that she was number two on Nicolai's hit list. While life as a slayer inured Faith to brutality, she was still shocked by the suddenness of the assault. Fortunately, Faith wasn't exactly the one in charge. Having recognized a major threat, Faith's slayer half took control and plunged her into action, simultaneously driving her to effectuate superhuman stunts to cross the four feet between her and her opponent and to undergo a full-blown tactical analysis of the situation. Nicolai was a trained professional, and Nicolai was armed. He needed to be culled and neutralized immediately.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Faith's slayer sense was having trouble factoring in her reduced combat effectiveness into its calculations. It understood broken bones, flesh wounds and even combat fatigue, but it did not understand how to incorporate the idea that it had lost its abilities.

Faith leapt forward and executed a sweep kick designed specifically to keep her profile low and compact and out of the way of a stray bullet, while simultaneously knocking Nicolai off his feet, discombobulating him and jarring the gun from his hand. It was nice in theory, but it left a little to be desired.

"Now, now, Ms. Lehane, is that any way to treat a Colonel?" Nicolai asked, slamming his foot down on Faith's leg as she was administering the kick. He did not have quite enough strength to overcome her speed and inertia, and found himself stumbling to one side, even as Faith was trying to recover from his parry.

Faith had banked on being able to knock Nicolai squarely off his feet with her sweep kick, but it did not happen. She also hadn't taken into account the fact that her speed had been reduced sufficiently so that Nicolai had been able to stall her kick somewhat, which had shifted her balance enough that it would take her a full quarter of a second to pop back up to a standing position, at which point she would still be, at best, two and a half feet from her target. Those were terrible odds. A veteran soldier needed no more than half a second to level and fire a gun with reasonable aim. That meant that she would have to anticipate the trajectory of the bullet with only a tenth of a second warning time, dodge it and bring herself within range of her target and neutralize him before he could fire a second shot.

Those were not good odds. Already, her slayer sense had interpreted all the tactical data at its disposal and had generated an alternative scenario that would yield a slightly higher probability of success. Switching from an offensive to a defensive game, Faith maximized the shift in her balance from Nicolai's parry so that she executed a partial somersault, partial cartwheel right over Carlos' still bleeding body, keeping her center of gravity low and her momentum high, so that she could grab Carlos by the torso and roll him into a position as she sprang to her feet that would allow her to use him as a human shield. She completed the maneuver within the requisite half second, so that, when Nicolai fired a round in her direction, all he managed to hit was Carlos' shoulder, causing the still dying soldier's socket joint to implode as the bullet tore through bone and sinew. Carlos began to drool mucus.

"Come now, Faith," Nicolai said, and then, as an afterthought, added, "May I call you Faith?"

"Go to hell," Faith replied, gently easing the magnum from Carlos' belt. Faith was currently cursing herself for her weakness. The magnum was holstered to Carlos' belt and was angled in such a way so that it was readily accessible from the front. Faith had, when she picked up Carlos' body, had the option of orienting him so that he faced either her or Nicolai. Not wanting to get herself coated in his blood, she had opted to orient him so that he was facing away from her. Unfortunately, this put the magnum in plain view of Nicolai, and it also meant that she would have to reach over and pull the gun from his belt in a way that would make it obvious to Nicolai what she was doing.

"You must have many questions for me, Faith," Nicolai said. "Don't you care to know where your friends are?"

"Like you'd tell me," she replied.

"I have nothing against telling you," he went on in a falsely magnanimous voice. "I am certain that you are completely and utterly incapable of liberating them. Ms. Summers has tried on no less than nine occasions. I admit we had not expected them to put up such fierce resistance, nor had we been entirely prepared for the magnitude of their abilities. Of your abilities, in fact."

Almost, almost, almost, Faith thought, chanting to herself like it were a mantra. Nicolai was moving to one side, and Faith was pulling Carlos' body away, exposing part of her shoulder but also obscuring the side that had the gun. Why do villains always feel the need to talk endlessly? she mused.

"But now we are, Faith," Nicolai said. "We are prepared one hundred percent to arrest, detain and use you. And use you we shall."

"Not in a million years fucker," she said, easing the gun out of its holster.

"But we already have. Do you not feel it? I know you do. The others have complained of the symptoms. Do you not feel the lethargy stealing over you? Dulling your senses, your strength, your speed. Stripping you of those wondrous powers that have always made you special. Do you not feel yourself returning to that tiny little girl you once were? Weak and afraid and unable to escape the regime of your father?"

Nicolai's words froze Faith in her tracks. Her slayer sense was screaming for her to take action but she found she could not. Nicolai was bringing to light some very uncomfortable thoughts and emotions that had lain dormant for so long, and which her growing impairment was crystallizing. He was tempting her with answers, and she knew he was doing it to trap her, but she found herself falling under its spell regardless. She needed to know what was happening, because, if she couldn't reverse it, she wasn't sure her life was worth living. There were very few things in the world she would fight for, and retaining her powers was one of them. Apart from having a purpose to her existence, her powers had given her the ability to crawl out of the destitution that had mired her childhood years. In her mind, losing her powers was akin to returning to the filth she had dragged herself out of so long ago. She would not return there.

"What about it?" Faith asked, her entire body coiled like a spring from the tension.

"Come with me, Faith, and I will show you. I will show you the greater picture; the world that we at Umbrella are creating. You can be a part of that. We are ridding the world of the scum that infests the dark places in our cities. You of all people can appreciate that. I know you can. Join us."

"Uh-huh," Faith said. Like I'm going to fall for that shit, she thought, whipping the gun from the holster all the way and whirling around to fire a shot.

That's when everything went to hell for Faith Lehane.

Nicolai's bullet to Carlos' shoulder cut the idealistic soldier's life by thirty vital seconds. Carlos, who had been infected by the t-virus back at the control room, when he had extracted the test tubes. It takes approximately four minutes from brain death to resurrection. Those four minutes had just passed. Faith had been so focused on the magnum and on Nicolai's whereabouts and his words, that she hadn't noticed the greying of Carlos' skin, the tightening and relaxing of his various muscles.

Carlos came alive in Faith's hands such that he wrenched himself free of her grip at precisely the moment that she pulled the trigger on the magnum. The resulting jolt to her balance sent the bullet wide, missing Nicolai by two feet.

"What the fuck?" Faith managed, taking a step back and focusing all her attention on Carlos. "Jesus, fuck me, Carlos," she breathed, wide-eyed, taking in the pallor of his skin, the stoop, the mucus, his one good eye. He snarled and lunged at her, both his arms outstretched.

Somewhere, deep in her mind, her slayer sense was going, "Aw, fuck, now you're seriously up shit creek."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Harry knelt down before his latest victim. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old; her eyes were wet with tears, her lips curled into a grimace. She looked up at him soulfully, as though begging him not to go any further. Harry did not respond to her silent entreaties. He laid one hand down across her hair stroking it, petting her as one might do to a dog.

"There, there," he murmured ever so softly. "Everything will be all right. Soon, you will be in heaven, with your kin."

Harry wrapped his hand around her small throat, just above where the bullet had entered her body, severing the neural pathways connecting her brain to her spinal cord, paralyzing her from the neck down. He licked his lips in anticipation. He knew he could do this. Concentrating, he focused on that familiar feeling, on the itch that writhed in the back of his mind, that same burning sensation he got whenever Faith was around. That thing that he had only ever been told was magic. He understood better now.

There was no way to describe using magic. The best you could ever get was generalities. But that didn't change the fact that it was always there, always waiting to be used, if one just knew how to use it. He knew it wouldn't be easy. All his attempts previously had met with relative failure. However, this time, Harry had a different goal. He didn't want to create giant explosions, or to cast complex spells. No, he just wanted to do the basics, feel it out, learn his own limits. He wanted control.

Harry was finally starting to get an inkling of what Kingsley Shacklebolt had met at the end of his training regime. Sure, Harry could cast spells, make portkeys, even do a bit of legilimancy and occlumancy. He could even utilize his animagus form. But he still lacked the superlative finesse, that ability to go from zero to sixty in under three seconds. He knew now that turning into an animal was only the beginning of the animagus transformation. There was a kind of blending to be had, a bleeding of forms, of animal and human together. It was the lack of that control that was the reason he couldn't retract his wings. But he was working on that too.

In time, if he survived.

He and Jill had picked their way through the sewers, Jill using a machete to clear away some of the denizens. It hadn't been pretty, and they had run across their fair share of critters, but anything was better than Nemesis. Eventually, they had negotiated their way to Umbrella, where they had gone topside just long enough to get into the building. Supposedly there was a chopper that was going to get them out of there, and they had endeavoured to head directly for it.

Harry purposely left this particular zombie alive. Jill was off investigating one of the facility's power plants, searching for the controls to the locks. Some of them had been smashed, but others were still intact, and they were wasting precious ammunition punching through some of the sturdier ones. Harry had elected to stand guard, in case anything came after them. At least, that was the cover story.

Mostly he just wanted to get out from under Jill's scrutinizing gaze, so that he could practice a bit of magic. Her moment of euphoria at having survived a crisis atop the cathedral had been short-lived, and she had returned to studying Harry like he were a new form of microbe. She hadn't asked him a single question about their miraculous descent, which, after some thought, he decided was a bad thing. It appeared that she had settled upon conclusions of her own, and Harry had no idea what they could possibly be. Nor did he want to ask. It was probably better to keep some of his secrets under wrap, and he didn't want to be backed into a corner where he felt obliged to inform her of his status as a citizen of the wizarding world.

It took four seconds for Harry to bring his magical energy to bear, to consciously fill himself with that suffusion of warmth. With gentle care, he coaxed it through his body, that same warmth pooling in his chest now being redirected to his hand. The tips of his fingers tingled, and when he squeezed hard enough to touch his index finger and his thumb together, they formed a small blue spark that singed the girl's grey skin. Harry squeezed harder, the soft, pliable flesh of her throat easily giving way, like that of a sponge. Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head, and drool dribbled out the corner of her mouth. Her head flopped back and forth, her blood-soaked hair painted across her forehead, dark strands falling into her eyes. She gurgled as Harry applied pressure in excess of anything an ordinary human could manage. Translucent blue energy, the colour of a simple magical shield pulsed around his hand, the magic coming to life, bending under Harry's will. The bone snapped with a jolt, and the girl's head lolled in an awkward direction, the last remnants of her life abolished.

He sat there for a moment longer, leaning back on his haunches and surveying his handiwork. There was so much more to study, to test, to understand. He wished he had time to figure things out, but he knew he didn't. It wasn't just that he heard Jill's footsteps echoing on the steel grates down a neighbouring hallway. Big things were happening. He felt it in the air. His unicorn sense was thrumming with a vibe that it shouldn't have been thrumming with. The oily taint was everywhere now. Players were moving pieces across the board, knights dying, kings shifting restlessly with anticipation as their pawns coaxed their way toward inevitable victory. The Raccoon City conflict was a mere prelude to the bigger war, and Harry could only barely grasp who a few of the players were. Voldemort. Umbrella. Dumbledore. The Ministry. But there were others too, he could sense them, even if he didn't have a name with which to identify them. Slayers, maybe? No, he didn't think so. Slayers were just pieces, like knights and bishops and rooks. So was he, for that matter.

"Hey," Jill said, coming up next to him and eyeing the corpse of the zombieling. "Been busy, I see."

"Would you rather I let her wander down in your direction?" he responded.

Jill held up a keycard, and two boxes of shotgun shells. "Absolutely."

Harry grinned. "Good. Let's get out of here."

-Scene Break-

Jill and Harry had penetrated the deepest recesses of the Umbrella labs, Jill in search of incriminating evidence, and Harry in search of the lost slayers. Neither found what they were looking for.

Now they were en route to the chopper. Jill couldn't help but experience a feeling of unease. Traversing the labs was proving to be unnaturally easy, and it put her on edge. Her escape from the zombie mansion and underground laboratories had taught her one thing. Dealing with Umbrella was never easy.

Part of her edginess came from Harry. He was an enigma, and Jill didn't like enigmas. There were too many oddities about him. So many that she hardly knew where to begin counting. The first thing, she supposed, was his attitude. He seemed calm; relaxed, even. And that made no sense. Most people she'd met who were stuck in a zombie-infested town had gone crazy. Zombies were too much to comprehend for the ordinary soul. Even Jill had had her breaking point in the depths of the mansion. And Barry too, she remembered. Yet Harry seemed perfectly at ease to go toe to toe with zombies. Unarmed. That was the really baffling part. He was prepared to walk out of the safe room, after having barely survived - no, check that - miraculously survived the explosion of the train wreck, even though he was unarmed, and he wasn't even interested in escaping. He was going to go out into the dark in search of his friend, without even considering the fact that he was defenseless against zombies.

Unless, of course, he wasn't defenseless. Ever since the "incident" at the cathedral, Jill had had to let Harry take care of killing the zombies. Her professional calm had been rattled, and she found it difficult to put aside her questions and her discontent. She wanted to ask him what the hell he had done to her; how the hell they had gotten off the rooftop, but she was certain she wouldn't like the answer.

Jill was crap at physics, but even she knew that no pair of wings was going to give them the kind of controlled descent she experienced. By all rights, they should have plummeted to their deaths. Possibly, she could have passed it off as some freak occurrence, involving altitudes, air densities - hell, she would have believed in flubber if he had tried selling it to her, if it were not for the fact that she had felt something. Something deep and visceral, like a charge going through her, violating her, permeating the fabric of her being.

It was more than just wings and air densities and exotic sciences like flubber. It was something else, and she didn't understand it. And that left her with the question, what the hell was Harry? And, more importantly, what else could he do that she wasn't aware of?

Jill was, for the most part, prepared to believe that Harry's intentions were benign, if it weren't for a couple of peculiarities. Jill had spent several years working hard to enjoy the level of marksmanship that she enjoyed. Hell, all her teammates worked hard. They went through a sophisticated, rigorous training regime that put them in the top percentile of their class. More than one STARS member went on to compete in Olympic sharpshooting. Harry could match any of them, bullet for bullet. His aim was uncanny, his control unparalleled, and Jill knew that you just did not get that good without some serious training. And training like that meant financing. And financing meant Umbrella.

When Jill had lugged his bruised and battered body out of the wreckage, she had assumed he was some sort of stowaway. An innocent kid who managed to survive and hitch a ride on the train. But now, looking back, she was starting to revise her perception of those events. Maybe he hadn't been a stowaway. Maybe he had been riding the train on the rooftop. Maybe he was sent to observe her, or Nemesis, or something else altogether. Maybe it was his job to take her out if Nemesis failed.

She had seen too much shit in her life to take anything for granted, to close off any possibilities. She didn't know what Harry was, and she didn't know who he worked for, but it didn't matter. She wasn't going to turn her back on him. Not for a second. Because turning your back on someone - anybody - even a person who saved your life, was a reckless thing to do when it came to dealing with Umbrella.

Jill and Harry found themselves standing in a large room, easily bigger than any other room in the facility. Both of them could just make out the blades of a chopper through the slitted windows of two large, steel-reinforced bay doors at the far end.

"We need to get those doors working," Jill said, glancing about. The warehouse-sized room, with its twenty-foot high ceilings, was littered with electronic equipment of all kinds. A bureau of tools jutted out into the center of the room from the left wall, obscuring what looked like a small mainframe computer. Harry walked over to it and tapped on some of the keys. nothing happened, though that wasn't saying much. He had little experience with computer equipment, since electronics didn't work at Hogwarts, and since his family never let him near Dudley's computer. Jill flicked the power switch, and the machine whirred to life briefly, the monitor flickering before the power died down. "Nothing here works," she said, her gaze drifting longingly to the bay doors. "Christ, we're just metres from freedom."

"Can we power this contraption up?" Harry asked, peering about the area. His gaze fell on the remains of a Nemesis-like monstrosity splattered across the far wall, a gouge torn out of its abdomen, its sightless eyes gazing in his direction. Something that Harry had first thought of as a futuristic satellite dish stood, its one end pointed at the decaying remains of the creature, taking up nearly half the warehouse space. It was twelve metres long and four metres high, with a series of concentric rings tapering to a point with some sort of rail nestled inside. Jill had turned her attention to rifling through the lockers, the desk papers and various other knickknacks in search of any useful information. Eventually, she stumbled upon what were large power cells. "Hey," she called from somewhere near the giant ray gun. "Give me a hand with this."

Harry came over and helped her lift the power cell into place, carefully slotting it and attaching the wires so that it was properly connected. LEDs around the warehouse came to life, and Jill motioned for Harry to follow so they could insert other power cells, hopefully engaging the electronic door opener to raise the bay doors.

Before they could reach the second power cell, however, Nemesis appeared in the entryway. Both Jill and Harry froze, their muscles tensing automatically.

Staring at Nemesis' ravaged face, his wounded torso, his three remaining barbed tentacles, Jill knew with certainty that she was going to die. The three stood silently, motionless, for a brief moment, eyeing each other warily, relishing on some unconscious level the impossibility of escape. There was nowhere left to move, no way out. Jill was not prepared to chance opening the bay doors, even if she could, when Nemesis was hot on their heels, and everything they had done so far, every attempt at running him down had met with utter failure. Since the cathedral, they had encountered Nemesis three more times, each time fleeing at the sight of him, firing multiple rounds, ranging from shotgun blasts to grenades. Nemesis had taken the brunt of the abuse, but he had not faltered, no matter that shrapnel was sticking out of his synthetic skin in multiple places, singe marks streaked across his arms. They had nothing left to hit him with. They had just been running on false hope.

In that brief moment, as Jill's nerves, frayed to the breaking point, her muscles tightening, her glance shifting about in search of weapons and defenses, her training kicking in regardless of the dismal odds, Harry took a step forward. Jill did not know what he was thinking, but she recognized the hard determination in his stance. he put himself neatly between Jill and Nemesis, and said in a quiet, steady voice, "Jill, go finish the power cells."

"But-"

"I'll deal with this," he said, cutting her off with his words.

Jill could not fathom what Harry was thinking. As far as she could tell, he was going to get pulverized in all of three seconds, after which it would be her turn. Nemesis took a tentative step forward. And she still had no intention of opening the bay doors so long as Nemesis was still able to throw punches. It would not be fair to Carlos or to anyone else who needed that chopper.

"Harry, I can't let you-"

"Do you trust me?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Nemesis.

Jill hesitated.

Harry went on, "I can't promise I'm going to be able to survive this, or that I can stop him. Hell, I might not be able to even slow him down. Maybe if I had a day or two, some time, God, even an hour, but..." He trailed off, and Jill saw his shoulders tighten as he relived some memory from another time and place. "Just go," he said finally.

"All right. Do what you can."

Jill turned and bolted in the direction of the next power cell. As if breaking whatever spell held them, Jill's motion triggered Nemesis into action. he roared and charged forward, intending to barrel through Harry in pursuit of her. Thinking that maybe Harry would be able to slow down Nemesis for only a moment, Jill swerved to one side and leapt onto a table, pirouetting and unslinging her grenade launcher. The sight that greeted her was not what she had expected. Nemesis had crashed into a large table of electronic junk, his head smacking against the corner of the wood, with Harry standing to one side, his gaze still fixed on Nemesis. Jill blinked. Was that a blue glow surrounding him? As if sensing her gaze, Harry spared her a glance and a tight nod, silently communicating the phrase, Get moving.

Jill shook herself and jumped off the table, focusing on getting the power cells into place and working the computer system. She would just have to trust that Harry could handle Nemesis.

-Scene Break-

Harry vacillated between terror and resolve. Nemesis weighed over a thousand pounds, and could crush bricks in its bare hands. Its skin was made of a synthetic fibre capable of withstanding multiple direct hits from a grenade launcher, including over fifty shotgun rounds, ten magnum rounds and countless shots from the .38. It had enhanced regenerative capabilities, courtesy of its viral symbiote.

Harry whirled out of the way of the oncoming juggernaut, and delivered a magically enhanced shove to the creatures side, driving it off its feet, and sending it crashing into a table. Score one for Potter, he thought grimly. He sensed Jill gazing at him and spared her a glance, nodding in her direction in order to let her know that he was still alive.

Nemesis got to its feet and issued a rumble as it appraised Harry for the first time. In the background, he could hear Jill slotting in the second power cell and bringing to life the enormous rail cannon that stood behind him.

Nemesis seemed to have learned something, since it did not charge again. Instead, it stalked toward Harry menacingly, its one hand balled into a fist and its three tentacles coiled in the air. It rumbled once more. "Yeah, that's right motherfucker. Bring it on."

Each tentacle was approximately ten feet in length and was as thick as a human leg. It had segmented rings that flexed and contracted, thus able to wrap around a human torso and break ribs, as well as lift an adult male into the air. One tentacle lashed out, trying to smack Harry down, but he dodged halfway, while bringing his wing up to deflect the brunt of the force. Nemesis grunted and Harry took a step back.

Nemesis closed the cap between them with two quick strides, intending to hammer punch Harry on the head. However, Harry apparated four feet to a spot just behind Nemesis, executing a mid-apparation turn around so that he reappeared facing Nemesis' back. He raised his pistol and pressed it to the base of the monster's throat, firing without hesitation. He had seen how ineffective strikes against Nemesis' head and torso had been. Faith's sword strike had barely scratched his skin. Harry hoped, logically so, that its neck would be more fragile. It was a reasonable assumption, because human necks were pretty fragile relatively speaking, and Nemesis was fundamentally humanoid. However, the scientists at Umbrella had contemplated this potential deficiency and had taken steps to correct it. The bullet ricocheted off Kevlar-reinforced neck bone, bouncing back into the barrel of the gun and causing it to explode, jackknifing to one side and sending Harry crashing onto his butt. Nemesis whirled around, one tentacle lashing out at Harry, who tried to roll out of the way. The first one failed, but another one managed to pick him up, wrapping him in its iron grip and squeezing.

Harry shut his eyes from the pain, willing his magic to permeate the fabric of his body, to strengthen him enough to withstand the assault. Nemesis, frustrated by Harry's resistance, slammed Harry head first down against the steel floor.

"God fuck," he wheezed, apparating out of the way and staggering backward against the computer terminal to catch his breath. Nemesis was once again stalking toward him, its eyes glittering with unrestrained malice. Harry took a deep breath and leapt fifteen feet into the air, timing it so that he came crashing down on Nemesis' shoulders, bending his knees to slide into a crouch and, employing all his strength, delivering a vicious punch to the back of Nemesis' head before leaping off, a tentacle trailing after him even as Nemesis' head was snapped downward from the blow. The force of Harry's punch could have cracked a human skull wide open and was enough to cause Nemesis to stagger forward.

Harry watched and waited as Nemesis gathered himself to chase after him once more. Nemesis issued another rumble and gazed at Harry, studying him, trying to understand what he was. Harry pursed his lips. He had put a lot of hope into his ability to damage Nemesis a little. He was confident he could trade blows with Nemesis for at least an hour, but he began to fear that it would not be enough. Whatever magical abilities he had managed to cobble together were not sufficient for the purposes of arresting Nemesis completely.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could make out Jill struggling with the third power cell. Nemesis seemed to have caught sight of her too, because he reoriented his position to intercept her. Oh no you don't, Harry thought, apparating behind Nemesis, intent on delivering a punch to his lower back.

Nemesis wasn't exactly the sharpest tack on the wall. It wasn't built to do things like calculate friction coefficients or compound interest. It could never get a job as an accountant, because it lacked the ability to remember concepts or to reason out abstractions. It could not build a program to ascertain questions like, "Why is Harry able to disappear and reappear at will?" However, what it did have was the ability to understand causality.

Hearing the distinct pop of an apparation, and remembering that Harry had reappeared behind Nemesis the last time, it lashed out with a tentacle within a half-second reaction time, so that Harry was still in mid-punch when the tentacle slammed into his face, lifting him off his feet and sending him smashing into a wall three metres away. By the time Harry managed to see through the fog of pain and dizziness, Nemesis was already bringing his fist down on top of Harry's head., catching him off guard and flattening him against the ground.

Harry's jaw slammed into the ground, the sound of teeth breaking and his jaw bone cracking reverberating through his skull. An ordinary person would have passed out from the pain, but Harry's magic was flaring to life, desperate to keep him alive. Through watery eyes, he could make out a giant foot coming toward him at high speed. No, Harry thought distantly, apparating on instinct so that Nemesis' foot only ended up kicking midair. Harry reappeared in a heap twelve feet away. He tried to pick himself up, his entire body trembling from the two direct hits he had just taken. Touching the back of his head, he could feel his hand grow slick with blood. He got to his feet and promptly collapsed down onto one knee. Goddamn, he thought, gritting his teeth and rising again. Nemesis picked Harry up by his throat and lifted him into the air, struggling to crush his windpipe as his magic flared around him, searing through Nemesis' skin, hands, sinew and bone.

"Grrr," Nemesis rumbled, unwilling to let go despite the ferocity of Harry's magical attack. Having played with his magic enough to get a feel for it, Harry was able to partially direct his magic on a conscious level, magnifying its output to something far higher than mere accidental magic could generate. At first, Harry's magic simply began to burn Nemesis' skin away at temperatures in excess of one thousand degrees Kelvin, but then, at some point, it simply began shredding the molecular bonds that held Nemesis together, working its way through each layer of skin and bone and fluid. Nemesis squeezed harder, but he understood that Harry was killing him faster than he was killing Harry. Showing something akin to disgust for the first time, Nemesis threw Harry to one side, sending him landing on the floor and rolling to a stop eight feet away.

Harry spat out a combination of blood and tooth chips as he tried to flex his fingers. He knew he was done for. The best he could hope for was to simply apparate back and forth, continuously dodging Nemesis in the hope that Jill would find a way to rescue him. And, if push came to shove, he would have to simply abandon her and find a hole to crawl in to lick his wounds. He had done all he could. He was barely fit to stand, and it would do him no good to waste time even trying. He could sense Nemesis approaching, resolved to take whatever abuse was necessary to stamp Harry out of existence.

His vision still blurred by tears and pain, Harry could only barely make out the bright flash of fire, which swallowed Nemesis whole and knocked him clean off his feet. From beyond the image of fiery carnage, Harry could make out two figures, bathed in the halo of orange firelight.

-Scene Break-

Xander and Dawn had followed the sound of fighting. For a moment, they just stared, transfixed by the events unfolding. Harry was being lifted into the air by a giant tentacle stretching out from what looked like a Frankenstein's monster cracked out on steroids.

"You reckon we ought to lend a hand?" Dawn asked uncertainly, glancing behind her to make sure nothing else was about.

Xander unslung his rocket launcher and pointed it in Nemesis' general direction. "We can't hit that thing without hitting his hostage."

Nemesis slammed Harry's body down against the ground.

"Ouch! That's gotta hurt," Dawn commented.

"Yeah, we might just have to risk it."

But then, in a blink of an eye, Harry disappeared, reappearing some distance away and collapsing against a computer terminal for support. Xander aimed the rocket launcher, but before he could pull the trigger, Nemesis had already stalked toward Harry, closing a sufficient amount of distance such that Harry would have been caught in the backwash of the fiery explosion.

"Dammit," Xander muttered, lowering the rocket launcher slightly.

Harry proceeded to leap into the air with enough speed that Xander thought he had teleported again. It wasn't until he saw Harry land on the hulk's shoulders that he realized Harry had jumped. What struck Xander and Dawn as the most peculiar, even above and beyond the ability to teleport, was the fact that Harry seemed to land on Nemesis' shoulders as though he weighed no more than a mere leaf. And then, simultaneously, he delivered a forward, jabbing punch with the base of his palm that had enough force to drive Nemesis to his knees, while, an instant later, leaping off Nemesis' shoulders fast and hard enough to avoid a vicious swipe of a tentacle.

"Nice," Dawn remarked. "Maybe he doesn't need our help after all."

"Yeah," Xander said, keeping his one eye fixed on Nemesis, not prepared to let his guard down for an instant.

They then watched as Harry used his teleportation trick again, only to get caught by a backhand swipe of a tentacle, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. Nemesis swiftly closed the distance between them, not prepared to give Harry an inch. He delivered a hammer punch that fractured Harry's jaw.

"Jesus," Dawn said, wincing at the sight of Harry's body collapsing against the ground.

Harry teleported once more, but Dawn and Xander could now see that it was taking its toll. And Nemesis was committed to taking Harry down. He ran up to the boy wizard and lifted him into the air. Xander and Dawn watched, fascinated as a bluish glow surrounded Nemesis' fist, disintegrating the skin wherever it touched, slowly exposing the dark, obsidian bone underneath, and the black ichor that kept it alive. Nemesis threw Harry once more, sending him sprawling across the ground.

Again, Nemesis was closing the distance between himself and Harry. Only this time, his back was to Xander, who decided that he wasn't going to get a better shot than this. Hopefully, Nemesis' body would act as a barrier to the explosion, protecting Harry from the worst of the blast.

For a moment, as he pulled the trigger, Xander revelled in the feeling of power that coursed through him. It was a feeling of power he was unaccustomed to as the Scooby sidekick to the slayer, but one which he had felt keenly once before. Once when, coincidentally, he had been holding a rocket launcher, and when he had used it to blow apart another hulking brute of a creature. But that was a long time ago.

Nemesis was swept up in a torrent of fire, pitching him to one side with the force of the blast. Dawn gave Jill a salute as she stopped to gaze at the flaming inferno that Nemesis had become. Seeing that Jill was having difficulty with installing the third power cell, Dawn jogged over to her. "Need a hand?" Dawn asked.

"Yeah, thanks," Jill said, and they got to work.

To Xander's amazement, Nemesis was getting to his feet and turning around to stare at Xander. Nemesis growled once more, his dark eyes framed by the fires still licking at his shoulders. Xander fired another shot, this time impacting Nemesis in the chest. Again, Nemesis was knocked off his feet in a column of flames, this time smoke rising up from his burning body. Xander waited a moment, the rocket launcher still poised, two rockets remaining.

Nemesis did not rise.

Glancing over at Dawn and Jill to make sure they were not in any danger, Xander jogged over to Harry, careful to avoid Nemesis' corpse. "Hey, you okay?"

Harry craned his neck to stare up at his saviour, the skin on his face cracked in several places, blood dribbling out of his mouth and dripping down the back of his head, and soaking his hair. I feel like dog meat."

"It could be worse," Xander replied. "You could have been possessed by a hyena."

Harry blinked, perplexed by the comment, but still having enough faculties to take Xander's now outstretched hand. He stumbled once, then twice, before regaining enough of his composure to stand. He was still wobbly, and, Xander recognizing that Harry was halfway to shock, slipped his arm underneath Harry's shoulder to provide some support. Harry almost immediately collapsed into Xander's half embrace.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, gripping a tuft of Xander's shirt as they stumbled toward Jill and Dawn.

"Didn't you know? I'm the one-eyed man."

"Er,"

Xander waved his words away. "Let's do introductions when everyone's present, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure." Harry used his free hand to wipe drying blood from his face and to begin tentatively touching his jaw. "I got really fucked up, didn't I?"

"Not your best moment, friend."

Jill and Dawn were connecting the last of the wires to the power cell.

"Got it," Jill said, intertwining the last pair of wires. The thing came on-line with a high-pitched buzzing sound. "We've got power," Jill sighed, relieved, glancing at Nemesis' flaming corpse.

"So where's the garage opener?" Harry asked.

"Jesus, Harry," Jill cried out, her eyes widening in an expression of horror. She came up to him and began fussing with his face, gently wiping a bit of drool from his lip and tracing the swelling on his jaw.

"S'okay," he muttered, embarrassed at her ministrations. "I've got a good insurance plan." He pulled back and detached himself from Xander, instead choosing to lean back against a filing cabinet. He felt some of his strength returning to him, though he had no illusions about his injuries. He had a broken jaw and a fractured skull, at the very least. He should have passed out from concussion, and only the gravity of the situation had kept him conscious. Don't think about that now, he admonished. You're not out of the woods yet. You need to get that door open, and deal with whatever the hell's on the other side.

Harry glanced around and saw that Xander was not alone. A brunette, relatively tall and lean was pushing buttons at the computer terminal. She was chatting with Xander, and pointing to something on the screen. Harry noticed Xander's expression turn grim.

Jill meanwhile, was pretty much doing what she always did. She was checking her ammunition, playing with her guns, counting her bullets, fiddling with the straps and holsters in order to improve her draw. They had come out of their battle with Nemesis relatively unscathed, which, Harry had to admit, was a hell of a lot better than they should have. Xander's timing couldn't have been better, and while that was cause for a bit of suspicion, the guy had basically saved Jill's life, and probably Harry's as well. Despite that, however, Harry felt a pang of disappointment. He had gone toe-to-toe with Nemesis and had failed. Sure, he lasted longer than he had any right to, given that he was basically unarmed. His nascent control over his magic made him deadly to any ordinary muggle, which was something he could not have claimed five hours ago. Still, it wasn't enough. He had wanted to taste victory. Too often, he had been pushed around, oppressed, driven by forces he could not control. He felt he was running out of time. He knew he didn't have decades to learn magic, to learn about himself. He probably didn't even have years. His life could be counted in days and weeks and months, and, for his time in Raccoon City, he was counting in hours. Sure, he had made progress, but given the obstacles he faced, his progress wasn't fast enough.

Harry sighed. Well, now's as good a time as any to practice a healing charm, he thought. Taking several deep breaths, he mentally counted down from ten, losing himself in a familiar trance, waiting for his magic to materialize in the low thrum that he was steadily acclimatizing to. Shifting it about with his brain, using metaphysical muscles he had never quite realized existed, he pooled his dormant energies around him, bathing him in that glow that reminded him he was a special, unique little butterfly. He felt his pain ebb away, his magic soothing his nerves. Using magic like this was fundamentally different from wand magic. The kind of molding that took place, the mental power necessary to forge magic into a spell didn't exist. Instead, there was a kind of coaxing that one had to do, a gentle massaging of the magic into the right form. It was the difference between that of blacksmiths and sculptors.

Harry was jolted out of his meditation by the sound of Jill's screams.

-Scene Break-

As far as Jill could tell, the whole world had gone bonkers.

Harry couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. Hell, he looked more like he was fifteen, though she had to admit that looks could be deceiving when you had a pair of giant wings sticking out your back. God only knew what Umbrella had been doing to him. Still, she had seen him fight again and again, and there was no reason to think that he could have stood up to Nemesis for more than a mere second. And yet he was still alive.

Though not because he had some sort of unknown, supernatural power at his disposal. No, it was likely the case that he was just fast. Whatever doubts she had harbored about his motives had lessened somewhat since his entirely too reckless stance against Nemesis, in which he suffered some pretty severe injuries. He had been inches from death. Though she had paid little to what he had been doing, instead desperately trying to connect the power packs to their respective generators, she had managed to catch sight of Nemesis backhanding him with one tentacle with enough force to splatter him across the far wall. It was a miracle he had survive that.

She had to give the kid credit. He had the brashness of youth.

And, just as she had been coming to accept that Harry Potter, with all his oddities, existed, quite conveniently, in the midst of a desperate battle to survive a zombie horde, she had to run, also quite conveniently, into a pair of really strange kids. One of them clearly still in her teens, and the other, some one-eyed Californian with a frigging rocket launcher. And the girl, Dawn, had a peculiarly sophisticated knowledge of computers. Enough to crack a pass code on an Umbrella computer, which, as far as Jill could tell, was theoretically impossible.

It had not been lost on Jill that Harry hadn't understood what the giant ring structure was that occupied a good portion of the warehouse. That had given her some comfort. If he didn't know what a rail cannon looked like, then maybe there was still hope for him yet. Maybe he wasn't an Umbrella goon after all.

But Xander knew. Jill could see it in the expression of surprise that crossed his features for a brief moment, before he schooled his face into an expression of neutrality. And Xander knowing what a giant, experimental rail cannon looked like at first glance did not comfort her. Who were these people?

All these puzzles were starting to give her a headache.

Dawn had pretty much usurped control of the computer terminal, which Jill was more than hesitant about, but, since she herself could not have gotten past the login screen, she had to concede that Dawn deserved first crack at rifling through its contents. And then Dawn had made that flippant, almost dismissive comment about how she could see on the radar the trajectory of the missile, which was apparently scheduled to eradicate Raccoon City in thirty-five minutes. Jill had to pause and stare out the bay doors to reassure herself that the helicopter was still there.

Glancing over at Harry, she noted that he had slipped into some sort of meditative trance. It was something she had noticed him doing intermittently during their time together. She hadn't understood at first what he had been doing, thinking that maybe he was narcoleptic or something, but he had always maintained a sufficient level of awareness, leading her to conclude that it was probably something more akin to Zen-Buddhism. She had heard that Muslims were crazy about praying, and maybe this was sort of similar. The way some people were really crazy about coffee breaks. Brad had been like that. he had stuck to the rules no matter what, like a mantra, he would chant STARS protocol in his sleep, as though it would give him some kind of inner strength.

Everyone had their own Gods, she supposed.

That was why, even after she had checked and re-checked her weapons, she found herself hanging awkwardly next to Xander, who was just leaning back against the computer console and staring off into space with his one good eye, while she checked the action on her shotgun. Marshall's was an old make and he had made a couple of upgrades that made it notorious for firing. He had apparently wanted to ramp up his firing ratio, though for what purpose, Jill could not fathom. All she knew was that it made the weapon devastating in its effectiveness, though, at the same time, it was pretty high maintenance.

"It looks like pretty much everything here has been rerouted through this terminal. The entire warehouse is designed to be independent of the overall facility," Dawn said, typing and clicking furiously. "And this terminal is the nerve center. We can control the lights, the doors, all the electrical outlets, pretty much anything you can think of."

Jill had briefly entertained the idea of arming the rail cannon and using it to help Harry, if he survived long enough. However, she hadn't been able to find the arming mechanism, and so she had abandoned the idea. It was thus truly fortuitous that Xander had arrived with superior firepower.

"Does it control the rail cannon?" Xander asked idly, glancing in Dawn's direction.

"Er, yeah, I think so. Let me just look into it." Dawn scrolled through all the power output devices and eliminated all the ones she recognized. Amongst the unknowns, she quickly scanned through and found the rail cannon. "FYI, the model number's RX-85. Sound familiar?" Dawn glanced up to both Xander and Jill.

Xander just shook his head while Jill said, "No, it doesn't."

Dawn shrugged. "Well, it doesn't really matter. It's still going to take five minutes to figure out which output belongs to the doors, and then to figure out how to control them."

It was at that point that Jill felt it.

something visceral was in the air; it was the stench of sweat, and internal bodily juices. Her nerves still frayed and her body still queued for a fight, she glanced around, her gaze resting on Nemesis' corpse.

Jill blinked.

Some sort of fluid was leaking out of its wounded abdomen. A fluid, she was certain, that hadn't been leaking before. Hesitating, too many memories of being hunted stealing her courage, Jill paused to take a deep breath and regain her composure. She then proceeded to head towards the creature, taking care to keep a good distance and to track it with her gaze.

The multiple grenade rounds and the two rockets had turned its resilient skin into a burnt, flaking exterior. It reminded her of the skin on Swiss Chalet chicken, all crispy and brown. Now that burnt exterior was fissuring, cracks spreading across its surface like a flaking pie crust, translucent juices dribbling out, and, out of that cesspit of necrotic, viral tissue rose something more terrible than anything she could have ever imagined.

Jill had survived a surprising amount of zombies during her career as a STARS member. She had been, quite understandably, inured to them. When she first killed a zombie, she had mourned for them, their lives, their memories, their hopes and dreams, which would never be realized. She had fixated on the blood leaking out of their wounds, the grey tinge to their skin, their hands still curled into claw like compositions, rigidifying as rigor mortis set in. Once she had to lead Bravo team into a hostage situation that was very quickly turning to dogs hit. She had killed the lunatic's accomplice, who had been a bit too trigger happy and who did not exercise enough caution. The bullet had collapsed his thorax cavity, depressurizing his chest so that his lungs caved in. He suffocated and bled to death at the same time, his eyes wide, his face contorted as he lived the last ten minutes of his life in agony.

She had not mourned that man. He had made his choice, regardless of what circumstances might have had a hand in guiding him to that point. Others were all too happy to shift the focus to childhood's and schoolteachers and parents, and maybe they were right to do so. But none of that was her problem. She was just a tool like everyone else. Killing that man made the world function.

Zombies were something else altogether. She couldn't rouse that natural apathy that allowed her to subdue humans with quiet efficiency. Her apathy for zombie killing was born out of inculcated repetition. At the end of the day, it came down to her and them, and she was not prepared to go gently into that good night. So she killed them, and she got used to it. However, it seemed that there was a price to pay for all the death and carnage; the sorrow and the pity that was systematically broken down and reassembled into her hatred. Having gone without food or rest for twenty-four hours, coupled with the heavy stressors and her chronic worry about Umbrella backstabbers, Jill's body was shutting down right when she needed it the most. She was going into shock.

The creature, whatever it was, that erupted out of Nemesis, its rippling, stone-coloured skin peeling away like an expired mold, reared up. It had a tubular body with short but stout feet, and it sported a great big, black cyclopean eye that bled black ichor. And, of course, it had a gaping maw filled with terrible fangs.

Jill just stared, wide-eyed at the creature, unable to move, unable to lift her gun, or throw herself to one side. Instead, she just screamed as it fixed its eye on her.

The advance of the monstrosity was halted in a burst of fire. The heat wave buffeted Jill so that she staggered backward and fell down, her body twisting to absorb the fall as her soldier instincts kicked in. She glanced back, her eyes still unfocused, only partly taking in the sight of Xander lowering his rocket launcher and staring in consternation at the behemoth. Jill didn't need to turn back to know that the rocket, this time, had only a nominal effect. Xander leaned over and spoke urgently to Dawn, while gesticulating decisively at the rail cannon.

You need to get up, Jill told herself, but her body didn't seem to want to cooperate. She was tired of running. Who were they kidding? They weren't going to survive. They were thirty minutes from total annihilation and they had a rampaging and seemingly invulnerable science experiment out for their blood.

Glancing over to one side, she saw Harry staring wide-eyed at Nemesis' new look. As if sensing his gaze, Nemesis turned its one eye to Harry. Seeming to recognize him from its previous incarnation, it oriented itself and lunged with raptor-like speed and precision, crossing the five metres between them in under one second. No ordinary human could have dodged such an assault.

But Harry was no ordinary human.

Jill blinked as she continued to stare at the spot where Harry had been occupying an instant before the creature smashed into the floor and the filing cabinet Harry had been leaning against. The cabinet, which was not designed to withstand the thousands of foot pounds of force that had just assaulted it, cracked clean through the middle, metal grinding on metal as the momentum of the creature carried it forward several feet.

It roared, but Jill was not paying attention. Somebody was trying to bodily lift her up. For a moment, she felt that strange tingling sensation that she had felt when Harry had hurled them off the cathedral rooftop. She looked up, and, sure enough, there was Harry lifting her into his arms, even though she probably weighed more than he did, given that he was bone thin and two inches shorter than her.

"You disappeared," she blurted out, the odd statement breaking her from her moment of shock.

"Er, yeah," he mumbled. "Surprise?"

"Get over to the thing!" Xander called, waving and pointing in their general direction.

"Huh?" Harry asked.

"Go to the monster!" Xander tried again, still pointing emphatically.

Jill gazed up at Harry's baffled expression. "Go to the monster?" Harry asked incredulously, staring at the giant quadruped that was turning itself around and aiming for another attack. "Are you fucking out of your mind?"

"Not that monster!"

Just then, a voice boomed over the intercom system.

"CANNON ARMED. COUNTDOWN WILL NOW COMMENCE. FIVE."

Jill struggled to free one of her arms so that she could raise it and catch Harry's attention.

"Huh?" he asked again, casting about in search of the new voice, though Jill could tell that most of his attention was focused on Nemesis. Idly, Jill noticed that the swelling around his jaw had mostly dissipated, as though he had been applying an icepack to it for the last five minutes. She resolved to put that oddity, like all the others that surrounded Harry out of her mind for the moment.

"He's referring to that monster," Jill explained, pointing to the carcass of a creature long since having been fossilized.

"FOUR."

But Harry did not have time to pay attention. Nemesis launched itself again, this time leaping to the spot right in front of Harry and swiping at him with its head. Moving faster than he had any right to, Harry managed to evade the swipe of its head and its jaws, coming out of the assault with nothing more than a few drops of saliva that had been expelled from its mouth and which splashed across Harry's neck and back.

"THREE."

"Go," Jill said, pointing to the carcass, knowing that she didn't have much time to explain to Harry, but knowing that she needed to do so at some point in the next three seconds.

Reacting without instinct, he leapt, narrowly evading another swipe and landing dead center in front of the cannon. For the first time, he seemed to realize that the giant telescope thing wasn't really a telescope at all.

"TWO."

"Er, is that thing powering up??" Harry asked.

The electromagnetic fields from the induction coils were making Jill's hair curl with static. Preferring to die on her feet, she pulled herself out of Harry's deceptively strong grip and set her feet on the floor, ignoring the jarring feeling of activating her muscles to carry her own weight. She wasn't quite able to manage carrying herself under her own power, so she half-fell into Harry's arms, grunting.

"ONE."

Harry seemed to have realized what was going on as Nemesis loomed menacingly over them, taking care to cut off all avenues of escape with its enormous body. "We're going to die," Harry noted.

"Unless you disappear," Jill added uncertainly. "You can disappear, can't you?"

"I won't be doing that," he replied. "Either we get out together, or we don't get out at all."

Whatever doubt Jill may have still been harboring about Harry's sincerity evaporated at that moment. You just couldn't distrust somebody who was prepared to die needlessly in your arms.

"ZERO."

The last thing Jill saw before the giant creature occluded the rail cannon from view was the flash of the induction coils glowing a blinding white from the tremendous electrical current that was piped through them.

-Scene Break-

Even before its metamorphosis, Nemesis had been bullet proof. Anything short of a chain gun would have simply been a minor irritation. Harry had noted that its skin was leathery or perhaps like that of a reptile. While it was a reasonable assumption, it was incorrect. The truth was, not even the scientists that created Nemesis knew exactly what it was. They had been playing with viruses, pushing their experiments into dangerous territories where not even they knew what would result. That was what Umbrella demanded of them every day of every year of every decade for the last two hundred years. For the most part, scientists had been stumbling around in the dark, which meant that ninety-nine percent of their work led to dead ends. Nemesis was the result of that other one percent.

The T-virus, which had been the original template for Nemesis, had had its DNA recombinated so that it began producing a quasi-synthetic compound that was flexible, porous and very strong. The scientists were still trying to understand what the material was, and how they could replicate it safely and cheaply.

However, after its metamorphosis, thanks to a selectively advantageous mutation generated out of the crucible of multiple rocket blasts, the virus had begun production of a new compound, this one not so flexible but which was harder than diamonds, and which had begun working its way through the respiratory system, reinforcing wounded areas, giving body and depth to the viruses that were hard at work feeding off Nemesis' corpse for the reconstruction of a new host system. With a replication rate that would make the most malignant cancer envious, the viruses swiftly and efficiently generated a host that embodied the most basic instinct of life: the need to survive.

And survival meant food.

The creature's skin was impervious to bullets. It was highly resistant to heat, metal shrapnel, and other sharp instruments. Even if one managed to cut through its epidermis, the creature's most sensitive internal workings, its central neural net, was coated in the new advanced crystalline substance, which functioned like a protective bone around the otherwise sensitive nerve fibres. Not even continuous fire of eighty millimeter rounds from a Soviet CCVL tank could damage those nerves.

Fortunately, the rail cannon was an order of magnitude above any of that. The rails were four metres long, and made of magnetized soft iron. There was a sophisticated cartridge system that loaded the two hundred gram, Kevlar-tipped, armour piercing bullet, equivalent to a one hundred twenty millimeter anti-aircraft round into the rail chamber. From there, the bullet was kept from being propelled forward by a Kevlar coated shutter. Because the energy field necessary to generate a supersonic bullet often had the unfortunate effect of melting the induction coils, the shutter had to be dropped precisely when the magnetic field reached its peak, so that the current could be cut as quickly as possible.

The bullet spent exactly one two hundredth of a second travelling through the cannon from the point the shutter went down. At the point of post-ejection, the bullet was travelling at approximately six times the speed of sound, which was about two thousand metres per second. Having enough energy to carve through six feet of solid oak and still puncture a human chest bone. the two hundred gram bullet, carrying a kinetic energy of four hundred thousand joules, tore through the skin of the monster as though it were made of paper. However, that is not to say that the bullet entered the creature with any measure of surgical precision. The momentum that bled from the bullet into the surrounding tissue was so high that the bullet exploded the surrounding flesh and juices in all directions, causing gore to splatter across the floor as the bullet continued its orgy of destruction inside the creature's body.

As big as Nemesis was, a bullet travelling at supersonic speeds only required a miniscule fraction of a second to traverse its entire length. In this case, however, the bullet never exited out the other side. Fortunately for all parties involved, all except Nemesis, the first bullet impacted Nemesis's central nerve system. The bullet collided squarely against the protective bone in what was a near-perfect elastic transfer of momentum. The shock of having hundreds of thousands of joules of energy transferred to it in the blink of an eye overwhelmed the molecular bonds holding the crystalline compound together. the bone cracked like an egg, with deep fissures running up and down its length and spreading over its surface for thirty-six inches. The bullet did not survive so well. The opposing action, Newton's second law, caused the pointed ball of iron to shatter into a thousand pieces, each no bigger than an iron filing, and each still having enough momentum to surge like shrapnel to all sides, lacerating all the auxiliary organs that kept Nemesis functioning optimally.

Nemesis emitted a piercing shriek as it thrashed about on the spot.

"It looks like it's trying to hump itself," Dawn commented idly. She let her hand slide down and tap the enter key on the keyboard. A little light on the screen blinked, and a note at the bottom indicated that the cannon was charged and ready to go. Dawn clicked on the automate option: bypass security protocols. Dawn couldn't help but smile.

Within another two seconds, the rail cannon discharged another round. And, for each second after that, for the next five seconds, the cannon issued a steady stream of three rounds per second, each one gouging a new hole in the creature's body. The eighth round managed to impact the nerve center, this time, completely shattering the bone and severing what passed for the creature's spinal cord. It went taut for a brief second before going limp. The cannon continued to discharge round after round until the heat from the electrical current melted the rings, causing them to ooze into molten puddles of slag at the base of the cannon.

Nemesis was certainly dead. Mostly.

"Do you reckon we should check to see what's left of our allies?" Dawn asked.

"Seems only courteous," Xander replied, pushing himself off the computer and walking over to Nemesis' corpse, careful not to step into puddles of the creature's innards. Dawn was just a step behind.

"Hey, er," Xander called out, not sure what to really say. "Are there any humans in there?"

"Harry? Jill?"

In response, there was a muffled moan buried deep within the mass of oozing flesh.

Xander and Dawn picked their way through the muck and uncovered Harry and Jill, Harry's wings wrapped protectively around them, cocooning them from the worst of the goo. They looked relatively unharmed, save for a shard of synthetic bone that had somehow managed to impale Harry's left wing.

"Oh God, somebody kill me," Harry muttered, blearily opening his eyes and gazing about his surroundings, taking in the carnage, the destroyed rail cannon, the remains of Nemesis' body. "Dead?" he asked, his gaze remaining on the mutilated corpse.

"Looks like it," Xander replied, toeing a bit of sludge out of the way to help clear Harry's path. "Whether it'll stay that way is another question."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, inching his way to a sitting position, mindful of his damaged wing and some bruising on his right leg. "Christ, what I would do for an aspirin right about now." He massaged his leg with both his hands in order to try and get some feeling back into them. He didn't fancy trying to get to his feet until he was certain that he wouldn't just stumble and collapse.

"Er, your wing," Dawn said, gazing at the puncture wound where the stick of bone was still embedded.

Harry glanced at it and blinked. "So that's where all the pain is radiating from," he muttered. Carefully inspecting it, he added with a sigh of relief. "It only pierced cartilage." From the underside, the skin and muscles and tendons were much more visible, including the veins that pumped blood through the wing. There was a moderate spattering of blood from the wound, but, all in all, not enough to be a cause for concern. Harry touched the bone with one hand. It was still warm from having been rooted inside the monster. It was smooth to the touch, like porcelain. "Huh," he said, pondering the strange protrusion. "I don't particularly fancy yanking this thing out," he said.

Jill took that moment to groan. "What hit me?" she said, clutching her head and dragging herself to her knees.

Dawn knelt beside Jill and gave her a quick inspection. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I think so," she replied, taking Dawn's shoulder for support.

"You need to get that out," Xander said, kneeling next to Harry to inspect the bone. "And there really isn't any good way to do it."

"So I figure," Harry said, looking up at Xander. He eyed him speculatively before saying, "You do it."

Recognizing the sense in Harry's comment, Xander nodded. "Yeah, nobody likes pulling off their own band-aids. You ready?"

Harry nodded, bracing himself for the pain. Xander gripped the bone in one hand and placed his other hand on Harry's wing to hold it in place. "On the count of three."

Jill was standing now, and she and Dawn just took a step back and watched as Xander and Harry readied themselves to pull the protrusion out.

"Two."

Harry tensed.

"One." Xander waited another half-second before gripping the bone more tightly and yanking with all his strength. The shard came out with an unpleasant sucking sound that ended in a small pop. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and his back arched as his nerves became a hotbed of activity.

Xander continued to hold Harry's wing down, while Harry just balled his fists and waited for the initial onslaught of pain to give way. Xander glanced up at Dawn and then motioned with the now freed shard to the computer terminal. Dawn seemed to understand, as she glanced over at the bay doors.

It was time for them to get the hell out of dodge.

After several seconds, Harry's breathing slowed and he managed to take a calm, deep breath.

"You okay?" Xander asked.

Harry nodded and opened his eyes. "Yeah, I'll survive."

"Good. You know it was a smart plan when even the bait survives."

Harry let out a bark of laughter, all the tension dissipating from him. They were free. After the last twenty-four hours of hell, thirty-six if he included his tiff with Faith on the mountain top, they'd finally made it to freedom. Nemesis was down for the count, and all they had to do was walk the ten metres or so to the helicopter, all their limbs intact.

That was when Jill's cry of, "WHAT THE FUCK?" broke Harry from his moment of manic euphoria. Both he and Xander snapped to attention, their gazes landing on Jill, who stood, riveted to one spot at the center of the warehouse, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the bay doors.

They watched as Dawn sidled up beside her, dismay blossoming across her features.

Harry couldn't help but feel a growing pit of dread open up in his stomach.

Jill turned to their direction, her face ashen. "It's gone. The helicopter. They took off without us."

A pall settled over the quartet, and, for several moments, nobody spoke. Finally, Xander asked in a subdued voice, "How long?"

They all immediately understood the question, though Dawn was the one to speak. "Twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes until Raccoon City was wiped off the map, and they along with it.

Xander stood, the bloodied shard slipping from his grasp and rolling in Harry's direction. He went over to Dawn and hugged her. The only thing to break the oppressive silence was Dawn's burst of shuddering sobs. She buried her face in Xander's shoulder, and spoke, through her tears, "We failed them."

Xander said nothing, instead choosing to simply hold Dawn and stroke her hair in a wan attempt to comfort her. Jill just stared sullenly at the space where the helicopter had been not five minutes ago. Even now, she could see it shrinking in the distance.

Harry was the only one not driven to despair. Instead, his attention had been stolen by the shard of bone that lay at his feet. It was about twelve inches in length and it had a diameter of one inch. On one end, a single unicorn feather was impaled on its tip, much of it having been folded around and pasted to the shard by drying blood. He picked it up, studying it intently, rolling it between his fingers, twirling it, swishing it back and forth, and, finally, just holding it, contemplating it. Sparks hadn't flown out of its tip, nor had he felt the familiar rush of warmth that he normally associated with a wand. But these things didn't bother him.

For too long had he been a prisoner to his wand. For too long had he made his wand the center of his magic. His wand did not govern whether he could use magic or not. Magic belonged to him as a matter of right. It flowed through his veins, gave him long life, great strength, resilience muggles could only dream of. A wand was just a tool. A useful tool, to be sure, but a tool nevertheless.

When he first entered the magical world, he had been taken in by all its quirks, its oddities. It had amused and enchanted him, but none of it had compared to that moment when he had gotten his wand. It had been the first time he had been suffused with that warm feeling. That feeling that told him he was a wizard. And ever since, he had always been scared that, by losing his wand, he would somehow no longer be a wizard. Certainly, that was the impression Dumbledore and Fudge and the rest of the wizarding world had always presented him with. Hadn't that been the biggest threat they could muster against him back during his fifth year? the breaking of his wand? Harry marvelled at how such an insignificant piece of wood could command so much attention. The wand was the symbol of wizarding power. Elves were not allowed to use them, and neither were goblins. But the wand was a prison as well. Through it, witches and wizards had gained dominion over the magical world, but, paradoxically, they had also chained themselves to it. A wizard was nothing without his wand.

Harry was not going to let himself be drawn into that trap again. Sparks would not fly out of his wand just because he mindlessly waved it around. Magic would only flow when he willed it to flow. The idea that he could accidentally blow his own buttocks off by placing his wand in his back pocket seemed patently ridiculous to him now. That lack of control over his own magic was something he would never again tolerate.

Harry pointed the makeshift wand at the rail cannon and gave it an experimental flick. If it were his holly and phoenix feather wand, Harry would have expected that a few sparks would have flown out. The connection between his own magical core and the magical focus, brought together by the wood, would have automatically been forged, with next to no conscious thought. Even though nothing happened with the bone wand, Harry could feel the magical focus quiver as though responding to his attempt. Out of the corner of his eye, he absently noted that the other three had wandered off past the bay doors, probably to spend their last minutes searching the skies for the object that would claim their lives.

"Come on," he muttered. "There's got to be a way to do this."

Harry pushed his magic outward, attempting to be both gentle and firm. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally crack the bone. One of the things he had noted in the last five hours is that his magic tended to dissolve easily into the air, most likely, he surmised, because it was unfocused. The dissipation effect meant that it was very hard to summon enough energy to do anything significant. It meant that he was limited to casting wandless spells on himself. However, he had also noticed that he had some success casting spells on objects that he was in physical contact with. Harry pressed his magic forward, running his fingers along the smooth surface of the bone, trying to coax his magic through it, to build that connection through the wand handle into the magical focus.

It was a long and tedious affair and it was causing blisters to form on Harry's palms, but he did not care. He felt something working, something giving way. The obsidian sheen of the bone was degrading to a matte finish, which in turn was turning to a mottled charcoal colour. Simultaneously, he felt his magic oozing through the handle, the way a stubbornly viscous milkshake would ooze up through a straw. And when his magic finally penetrated all the way up the handle, devouring the last of the bone's luster, the tip exploded in a burst of blazing sparks, ranging through all the colours of the rainbow.

Harry grinned. He could feel it now. The connection, like his old wand but different. He casually pointed it to the far wall and fired off a stunner, the red light splashing against the concrete surface and thinning into oblivion.

Harry stood, following the others into the courtyard, content in the knowledge that their freedom was assured.

-Scene Break-

"Do you hear that?" Nicolai asked in a soft, sinister voice.

there was another rumble and another roar that emanated from inside the warehouse.

"That is the sound of your friends dying."

"Go fuck yourself," Faith wheezed through gritted teeth. she was fighting it as hard as she could, but the pain was overwhelming, forcing tears to slip through her eyes and down her cheeks. She couldn't believe this was happening. Her entire body was trembling from pain and exhaustion and humiliation. She had never known rage like this before; the kind of rage that was born out of absolute impotence.

Nicolai hadn't given her even a second to dispatch Carlos. He had duly recognized her as the far bigger threat and had swiftly fired a bullet into her right kneecap while her attention was diverted. He had then discharged a pair of bullets into Carlos' brain, destroying whatever was left of his neural function and sending him sprawling to one side with a well-placed kick to Carlos' hip, as though Carlos were just a piece of clutter that needed to be knocked aside.

Even in her pain-induced stupor, Faith knew she needed to get Carlos' gun, but it was no use. Nicolai had already zeroed in on it and neutralized it with another round of his magnum.

Now he was hovering over her, relishing his victory, raking over her body with his hungry eyes.

"You're a special one," he murmured. "Faith Lehane, the second slayer. Sidekick, wannabe, the second fiddle. Poor little Faith, full of all that self-loathing, all that desperate want. That unbridled need to be loved, accepted for your mind and your heart. Did it feel good, going to prison, Faith? Did you feel like it was worth it? Your freedom for a vampire's respect? I bet it did. So much so that you broke out of prison to save him. It was very touching to read that part."

"How?" Faith asked, despite herself. she knew he was baiting her, taunting her, but she couldn't help but give into it. She was sick and tired and hungry and injured and weak, and worst of all, she was alone. And this creep, with his pedophile leer was messing around with her mind, toying with her, and she needed answers. "How do you know all this?"

Nicolai smiled that sinister smile, and Faith knew that she wasn't going to like the answer. Not one bit.

Nicolai knelt down and stroked her hair. "Don't you wonder where your powers have gone? Can you not see the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle? Can you not put it together?"

Faith reached over, acutely aware of her sluggishness. She hoped she still had enough strength to take him by surprise. She grabbed Nicolai's wrist with surprising speed, but it was not enough. Nicolai brought his other hand down, clobbering Faith on her own wrist, forcing her to relinquish hold of his gun hand. "Now, now, that is no way to treat your superiors," he admonished, waving a finger in her face.

Faith did not respond, instead just focusing her gaze on his. "There is no missile, is there?" she finally said. "That was just a ruse."

Nicolai scowled and glanced back at Carlos' corpse. "I didn't want to kill him. He was a good soldier."

Faith reached her hand over again, pushing it as fast as she could, grabbing onto Nicolai's arm once more. instead of trying to use brute strength, however, she instead dug her thumbnail into the soft flesh of his wrist, causing him to curse.

Come on, Faith thought, just a little more.

But before she could wedge her thumb into his vein, Nicolai leaned forward, crushing his knee into her face, grinding her nose and breaking it. The pain was intense. She could feel cartilage giving way and heat blossoming in its wake. Faith cried out and snapped her hand back, in an attempt to push his knee away, but Nicolai just pressed harder, the hard bulge of his kneecap moving downward and putting mind-numbing pressure on her teeth. Faith thought she was going to black out from all the pain, but Nicolai released the pressure and pulled his leg back completely.

"bitch," he said, standing and nursing his cut wrist. "Obviously you don't want to play. We'll just get a move on, then."

Faith touched her face tentatively to see what damage he had inflicted. Sure enough, her nose was broken and bruised, but her teeth, thankfully, were still in place. She knew her slayer healing would fix her up as good as new, assuming that it hadn't been suppressed.

Suppressed.

faith blinked. Was it possible? Was that what had been done to her?

But how could it? She had never experienced it before, but Buffy had. In fact, Buffy would have been the only slayer to that was still alive. It was an arcane, obscure and totally pointless ritual that was a relic of the old council.

The cruciamentum.

Buffy had only ever mentioned it in passing, and she had had nothing good to say about it. Usually, she only brought it up to highlight just how clueless and misguided the Watchers' Council had been.

But how the hell would these clowns know about something like that?

The possibility of the cruciamentum was the only explanation she could think of, but it was too farfetched to believe. Even if they had discovered the suppression drug, they hadn't had an opportunity to administer it.

Unless it came part and parcel with her belongings. Unless it left England with her.

Faith felt a cold chill creep down her back as the distinct possibility that she had been set up worked its way through her brain.

There were still far too many questions that needed answering. Faith tried to recall everything Buffy had ever said about the ritual, which, in actuality, was very little. The drug was mostly contemporaneous with her loss of powers. She had been on the drug for a day or two before it started to take effect. That made sense, Faith thought. She hadn't drank from her water bottle until they were on the plane, and even then, she had only drank in small doses, choosing to save it for use in emergencies. Her last sip had been nearly twenty-four hours ago.

"So you went to all this work to capture me?" Faith asked. "That's rather flattering. How did you know I would be here?"

"So the second slayer seems to have come to some conclusions, has she?" Nicolai sneered, absently pawing at his wounded wrist.

"Yeah, well-" Before Faith could deliver a witty retort, Nicolai's boot connected with her head, cutting her off in mid-sentence and making her see black spots. By the time her head cleared, she found that her hands had been shackled behind her back.

"You were never supposed to make it to Raccoon City," Nicolai said, attaching a rope to the cuffs and dragging Faith across the cement, completely apathetic to the skin that was being grated off her arms and back. Faith could barely make out Nicolai's words, but she knew she had to in order to get some information. Pain she could handle. Information was what she needed.

"The cruciamentum was supposed to have taken effect by the time you reached the base of the mountain. You were supposed to have collapsed from exhaustion by the time you reached the top and you were supposed to be picked up then. You were two days ahead of schedule. I thought it was fitting that you should be caught at the same place where the first slayer, the true slayer, had been caught."

Faith took in that tidbit with a thoughtful frown that was mostly obscured by her wince of pain. Two days ahead of schedule... she thought. Cruciamentum, the mountain top. It sounded like Giles had been the one to rat them out, but it didn't make sense. Leaving aside the fact that Giles was one of the do-gooders, he had discussed Faith's change of plans. With the introduction of Harry's magic, they had been able to expedite her itinerary.

Okay, she thought, maybe it was some sort of underling. A grunt that had access to some information, but didn't know what it all meant. Maybe someone just copied all the files from the head office and the Umbrella goons picked and chose what they liked.

But somebody had to get the potion into her water bottle.

Faith was thrown unceremoniously into the backseat of the helicopter with Nicolai getting in the front. There had been a lull in the sounds of carnage coming from the warehouse, but now they had picked up again. Whoever's in there is putting up one hell of a fight, Faith thought absently as she watched the ground fold in on itself, shrinking as the buildings of Raccoon City's downtown came into view.

"So what then, it was just luck that I ran into you in raccoon city?" Faith asked.

"Precisely."

"that's not a very diabolical plan. No offense."

"None taken, Faith," Nicolai said, pushing the helicopter forward as fast as it would go. "We assumed you would either be killed by a zombie wandering around in raccoon City, or you would be annihilated by the tactical strike. If, somehow, you managed to escape, well, we had all the exits and entrances into the city being watched for escaping zombies, so we would have simply picked you up as well."

So there really is a tactical strike, Faith mused, feeling an uncharacteristic stab of pity for the people down below. They had been putting up a real fight against the monsters, from what she could tell from the sounds, and here they were going to get themselves wiped out by a giant missile. Not that she was in a position to do too much pitying. She was broken and abused and was being carted off to become a lab rat for some seriously twisted fucks.

"So why are you doing all this?" Faith asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. In all her years, she had pretty much come to the realization that there were two reasons why people did evil things. either they were just plain evil, or they were misguided. Faith was pretty sure Nicolai was in the former category, but she wanted confirmation.

However, Nicolai didn't respond.

"So I assume you're conducting tests on us, then?" Faith said, trying a different tact.

Nicolai nodded.

"You want to figure out our secrets?" Faith prodded, searching for some more information. "You know, reproduce us, make cures for third world countries and all that stuff?"

"Consider it your civic duty."

"I'm an escaped felon. I don't really have a civic duty. I can't even vote."

"True, true," Nicolai replied. "As you have no doubt been briefed, ten slayers were apprehended between here, San Francisco and Sunnydale. One of those was the first slayer. Incidentally, were you aware that Ms. Summers has significantly higher performance specifications than her counterparts? She can lift twenty-three hundred pounds over her head. The others can barely do half that. I am curious to find out whether it is a function of her life experience or a function of the young witch's activation spell. Testing you will help answer those questions."

"Joy," Faith muttered, tentatively testing to see if any of her strength were returning. The cruciamentum had to wear off sometime, and Nicolai obviously didn't know how much or when she had consumed the drug. That meant she still had a chance.

"Ms. Summers can endure far more from our testing procedures than can the other slayers. That makes her invaluable. Five of our slayers failed to survive Umbrella's tender mercies. It is a pity." Nicolai turned around, his one hand still gripping his pistol. He gazed intently into Faith's eyes. "Do you see what a prize you are, Faith? We can learn so much more from the true slayers than we can from the false ones." For a moment, Faith saw a glint of something alien in his eyes, something devoid of humankind, something intelligent and demonic, and the worst part was that she suspected, however paradoxical, that it was not really a demon at all. Nicolai was a true psychopath. He was just born wrong and it made him different from other humans. It gave him the ability to do things that others could not bring themselves to do. "As useful as it is to study Ms. Summer's we need a comparator. One who was made like her, from the same original magic. We need it to control for the magical variance. We need to know why Ms. Summers is different from the others, and we need to explore that difference. Figuring out where you stand in the kaleidoscope of slayer powers is essential. You are the key to answering that question. Did you not bother to question even once why Mr. Giles would send you to the United States where you were a wanted felon? Would it not have made sense to send someone else. Possibly someone older, who would not have become a target? Someone like your ex-lover, Robin?"

"You can't convince me that Giles betrayed Buffy. Maybe he'd sell me out. There's no love lost between us, but he wouldn't do that to Buffy."

Nicolai shook his head, and returned to staring out the window. "I thought you would understand. Everyone breaks. Words like betrayal are just fictions placed onto the truth of human nature. There can be no betrayal, because there can be no trust. Rupert Giles has new allies now. He may not have chosen us, but it is the case nevertheless."

"What did you do to him?" Faith asked.

Faith caught sight of Nicolai's grin in the reflection on the side window. The glass was specifically constructed to avoid reflection, but the angle of the rising sun was just right that it managed to catch Nicolai's visage. "What is the first rule of every slayer, Faith?"

"Don't die," she responded without thinking. She could never remember where she'd first heard that. Possibly it was Buffy, but Faith wondered if maybe it was built into the slayer package. Some sort of primordial survival instinct that transcended time and place.

Nicolai said no more, instead choosing to focus on his flying. After a minute, he picked up the radio and dialed out.

"Control," he said, "This is Colonel Nicolai reporting. The package has been received. Respond."

Nicolai let go of the talk button and waited for the crackle of static to fade. To his dismay, it did not.

He repeated his words into the mouthpiece, but it again had no effect. "I do not understand," he muttered, checking the wires and fiddling with some of the knobs to see if everything was in order.

They were five minutes from the Umbrella military complex, which was nestled in a secluded valley on the other side of the mountain range, about forty kilometres from the edge of Raccoon City. The complex was just visible in the morning light when, all of a sudden, it disappeared in a burst of flames.

-Scene Break-

"Where the fuck is the helicopter?" Jill shrieked, kicking Carlos' mangled gun to one side in a fit of despairing rage.

Xander and Dawn exchanged looks, while Harry stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring somberly down at a broken sword. He knelt, and picked up the hilt, his gaze fixed intently on it, his lips pursing in sober contemplation as he considered the ramifications of finding this particular sword.

This was the one he had made for Faith. He knew it from the look of it, the feel, the weight, the unnaturally sharp edge of the blade. Jill was currently inspecting Carlos' body. He imagined it couldn't be easy for her, seeing another comrade fallen, and, by the look of his skin, having been turned into a zombie beforehand. But at least, despite all that, Jill knew for certain his fate. Harry had no such assurance. Where was Faith?

Harry's first instinct was to assume that she had broken it fighting some particularly large and ferocious creature, like Nemesis. But if that were true, where was the large and ferocious creature now? Had it chased Faith into another room? Another building? That didn't make a lot of sense. Faith wouldn't just leave when there was a perfectly good helicopter waiting here. Harry too had seen the chopper blades. He knew it was sitting out here no less than ten minutes ago. Canvassing the skyline, they had even seen the departing vehicle, though it had been a mere speck in the distance.

Faith was super strong, and super fast and super durable. There was no reason why she would have to be forced to flee from the courtyard when the driver of the helicopter didn't have to. Unless she was doing it in some crazy act of self-sacrifice. Harry couldn't picture Faith being that noble. Besides, that hypothesis didn't include the smashed gun that Jill had ruthlessly kicked into a wall.

Harry went and examined it. The clip had popped out and bullets were scattered across the ground. A lead round had nestled itself in the cocking chamber, demolishing part of the hammer, the latch for the clip and the chamber itself. Why would a human destroy a gun?

To stop another human.

Harry pursed his lips again. "So much for trusting the mercs." Harry briefly wondered whose side Carlos had been on when the shit went down.

Harry was certain that Faith would not have run. What would the point have been? She was here, at the center of the fight, inches from freedom - she would have fought tooth and nail to get on that helicopter. It was likely that she had been shot at. The sword was probably wrecked in the firefight. Without there being any giant monster bodies decomposing, and assuming that such a monster wouldn't have fled until it smashed the helicopter, Harry was prepared to assume that there was no monster at all.

Could Faith have been kidnapped? That made even less sense, unless she had been gravely injured. Harry glanced around. There were blood spatters, but what made them and whose they were remained a mystery.

"Jill closed Carlos' eyes and stood. Harry caught her gaze with his own, and he felt the despair radiating off her in waves. It occurred to him then to wonder why Jill was so hard. Harry had had a tough life, and so had Faith, and they had both come out of it tougher. More importantly, they had both come out of it relatively unscathed. Sure, they had their fucked up moments, and they had violent mood swings, but they weren't like Jill. Jill seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was choking to death. She was as hard as any ordinary person could get, he supposed, but she didn't have the tolerance for this kind of emotional and physical abuse. Her entire world had been torn to shreds, and she was left alone, friendless, forced to stare into the face of a vast chasm each day, always being reminded of her own smallness. He supposed it must have been that quality to her life that made it so difficult to live. She was ordinary. She had no unique powers to speak of, no destiny, no Chosen One status. She couldn't take comfort in the knowledge that she was unique and that those qualities that defined her uniqueness also gave her purpose. She had no Voldemort against which to define herself. All she had was Umbrella, which was a faceless, formless entity made up of halls of mirrors, intersecting, stacked on top of one another, rife with betrayal and the weaknesses of human kind. Jill's despair was an existentialist one.

Harry gazed down at the broken gun. They had fifteen minutes before the entire place was destroyed. Harry wondered how they planned to wipe out an entire city. Were they going to systematically bomb each district? Or were they going to use a nuke and cordon off the entire valley?

Xander and Dawn were having some sort of debate in a corner, where Dawn was talking and Xander was shrugging. No one had any ideas.

Harry tentatively retrieved the stick of bone from the makeshift holster he had created with his belt loops. The realization that the chopper had taken off without them had driven the others into a stupor, which was quite understandable. There was nothing like one's own imminent death to incite a bit of self-reflection. Harry, of course, was not partaking in the catharsis, as he was confident that none of them were going to be left to die. All it would take was the creation of a single portkey. Harry's ruminations had taken him elsewhere.

Harry still hadn't gotten over the shock of possessing a wand. Over the last ten hours or so, he had grown accustomed to its absence, having been forced to contemplate the puzzles each scenario offered in new and exotic ways. His mind had given up relying on the belief that he could create portkeys, vanish objects, conjure, transfigure and heal at will. It had done so as a matter of survival, and it had been a brutal lesson to learn. But now his wand was back, and all those things that he had taken for granted and which had been denied him had, consequently, returned. It was a bit much to absorb.

Harry pretty much trusted Jill. She was a decent sort, even though he had had reservations about her in the beginning. He couldn't quite make the claim that he trusted either Xander or Dawn. Like Jill, he felt their timing was a bit too coincidental. Also, he had yet to see them throw themselves in harm's way on his behalf.

Harry blinked out of surprise, as he just realized that mortal self-sacrifice was a prerequisite to gaining his trust. He shook that concern from his mind, and accepted that, for a long time, it was the way things were going to have to be.

Some would have said that Harry enjoyed breaking rules. That he reveled in the attention, and while it may have been true in some exceptional circumstances, like under Umbridge's reign, generally speaking, Harry abhorred doing so. He only broke as few rules as necessary to get by, or, at least, rules that he thought served no useful purpose. Harry had yet to truly violate the International Statute of Secrecy, and there was a good reason for that. He actually believed in it. Going around doing magic in front of muggles brazenly and without attention to the consequences was a recipe for disaster. Even taking a benign view of what muggle-wizard relations would be like, Harry could see a lot of misconceptions and violence arising out of the friction between the two groups. Any dismantling of the Secrecy Act would require a very well-developed integration system, carefully thought out by a team of experts. And now, having seen the brutality of Umbrella, Harry suspected that secrecy was paramount to wizarding survival. Umbrella had wiped out more people in a day than Voldemort had killed during his entire reign of terror.

And there was the rub. He thought it was likely that Dawn and Xander had seen him perform magic. He was certain that Jill had. At the time, he thought it was justified, since he was in a life or death situation. He hadn't even expected that he would be able to do something about it, even if they had survived. He hadn't thought a wand would end up falling into his lap. But now it had, and Harry had to make a decision. Should he obliviate them?

He wasn't too concerned about Jill. Who would she tell? Who would believe her? But Dawn and Xander were another story. What if they were friends of Umbrella? Umbrella already knew about slayers. They would believe Dawn and Xander if they told a story about a winged kid that could disappear and reappear at will. Harry didn't want to bring that problem down on the wizarding world. Sure, it would probably take years for Umbrella to get anywhere, but then again, Umbrella did have years. It had decades and resources, and Harry didn't want to think about what it would mean for the wizarding world if Umbrella began trying to push its way into it. He didn't want Hogsmeade to be another Raccoon City, and he wasn't so arrogant as to assume that Umbrella couldn't do it simply because he himself couldn't conceive of a way how. Human ingenuity was a dangerous thing.

Harry went over to the broken sword and, with a quick repairing charm, he mended it. With another flick of his wand, he vanished the blood and grime off the sword and then turned it into a portkey before conjuring himself a simple scabbard, glued to his hip with a sticking charm. He picked up the sword by the handle and turned it over, admiring his handiwork. Sometimes, he still had trouble believing in magic. Harry didn't know the first thing about swords. He'd only ever seen one on black and white reruns of Douglas Fairbanks Zorro episodes and then once in the Chamber, where he had used Gryffindor's sword to kill the basilisk. The sword in his hand looked nothing like either of those. It was slender but deceptively strong. it was medium length, about three feet, lustrous and had a curved tip. The blade ran all the way through the hilt, which was encased in wood, with metal bands over top, which were in turn covered by a synthetic, rubber-like tissue, ergonomically designed to accommodate his fingers and his thumb.

"I guess this is good-bye, then," Jill said, coming up next to him and eyeing the sword. "Nice work, by the way."

"Hmm?" Harry asked, drawing his attention away from his creation and turning to gaze curiously at Jill.

"I assume you're taking off. You know, doing that disappearing thing," she replied, behaving with surprising nonchalance. "I just thought I would say good-bye."

"Er, yeah, the disappearing thing. It's called apparation."

Jill smiled. "Must be convenient."

"It is, as a matter of fact."

Jill nodded. "I know you'd take us if you could," she went on, locking eyes with Harry. "You risked your life back there for me." She gestured to the warehouse. "I'm thinking now that you could have taken off whenever you wanted."

"Jill-" Harry began, trying to cut her off.

"No, please, let me finish," she continued, a distinct note of vehemence in her voice. "I get that I don't really know you." She let out a short laugh, her gaze glancing off his wings before returning to face him keenly. "But I do know that you're a noble person. You've proven that, I think. So, I wanted to say thank you, and to let you know that it's okay. You need to go. The world needs you."

Harry sighed. This is what I get for leaving her to brood about her own mortality. Harry opened his mouth to respond and then promptly closed it. He had no idea what to say to that. Finally, he just said, "We're all getting out of here. Right now."

Jill remained motionless, as if not understanding his words. Harry sighed again and hollered to Xander and Dawn, "Oy, you two! Get over here!"

"What do you mean?" Jill asked.

Xander and Dawn approached.

Harry raised the sword so that it was in plain view to all four of them. Laying it flat between his two hands, he said, "this," he shook the sword to emphasize it, "is a sword that I have just enchanted - that's right, - enchanted, to transport us from this place at near instantaneous speed. Each of you put a finger on the blade."

Dawn and Xander exchanged a glance that Harry couldn't identify, while Jill raised an eyebrow questioningly, while complying to Harry's command. Dawn and Xander followed suit.

"Activate."

The quartet disappeared in a swirl of colour.

They reappeared atop Sulfur mountain, in the same spot where Buffy and Willow had been taken and where Faith and Harry had had their little tiff.

With his improved reflexes, Harry managed to not fall, while the others just looked a little queasy.

Now that they were out from under the mountain's shadow, the world looked significantly brighter, the sky a markedly cheerier blue the sun twinkling as though zombies were just the product of overzealous imaginations.

"Incarcerus," Harry said, simultaneously knocking Dawn and Xander off their feet and wrapping them in magically interlocking ropes.

"Wha-fuck?" Xander cried out. Dawn just issued a tiny shriek before they were both neatly settled on the ground. Jill, meanwhile, staggered back and regained her footing long enough to whip out her pistol, her eyes wide. She aimed it at Harry first, and then, uncertainly, aimed it at Dawn and Xander.

"Point that somewhere else!" Dawn cried.

"Harry?" Jill asked, glancing between the two prisoners and Harry.

Harry slid the sword into his makeshift scabbard and tapped it twice to disillusion it. I'm going to have to learn to do that one wandlessly, he thought.

"Yes, Jill?" he replied in his calmest, most soothing voice.

"What - what are you doing?"

"I'm tying up Dawn and Xander," he replied.

"But why?"

"Yeah, why," Xander echoed.

Deciding that it made far more sense talking to Jill, Harry turned to face her, only keeping enough attention on Xander and Dawn as was necessary to prevent them from doing something like escaping. It hardly mattered that he spoke to them anyway, since they were only going to be obliviated. "I don't trust them," Harry explained, deciding to skip the part about the wizarding world and the International Statute of Secrecy. "If you haven't noticed, I'm a winged magical being. I can teleport myself and others at will across great distances. They" he pointed a finger at them, "are liabilities. I hardly want my skills advertised to Umbrella so that I can be hunted ruthlessly. Surely you understand that, Jill?"

"Er, yeah, but what are you going to do to them? Harry, you can't kill them."

Harry stared into Jill's imploring face, realizing that the trust they had managed to forge with one another was not something she was prepared to let go of so easily. Part of him was tempted to simply ask, Why not? but the more rational part of him asserted itself. He replied, "Of course I wouldn't do that." He decided to tack on what he thought was a rather cheesy line, but which was a good way of asserting morals, "That would just mean that I'm stooping to Umbrella's level."

Jill visibly relaxed. She glanced at Xander and Dawn speculatively. "So what then?"

"Yeah, what are you going to do with us?" Dawn asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

"I'm going to modify their memories," Harry replied.

Xander and Dawn both bristled, while Jill just looked confused.

"You can do that?"

"You're so not modifying my memory, wizard boy," Xander said with uncharacteristic vehemence. "Been there, done that. Not a happy place."

"Yeah," Dawn agreed with equal intensity. "Playing with mind magic. Not cool. Not cool at all."

Harry paused to consider their words. They were implying that they had experience with mind magic. At first, Harry was inclined to dismiss it as posturing, but the fact that they described it as mind magic was startling. It would be unusual for people who knew nothing about magic to denote a particular spell by the class of spells. It was unlikely that someone would just spontaneously identify the nomenclature for magic.

"We don't really have time for this, Harry muttered, glancing about searching for the helicopter. Part of him had wanted to just run off and seek out the helicopter. He figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that Faith was on it, and that there was a chance, however small, that the helicopter would lead him to where the other slayers were being held. But he didn't want to leave them in the lurch, or tie them up and stun them while he went out and searched for Faith. He couldn't assume that he wouldn't be disarmed again or possibly injured, and anything could have happened to them while he was away. Besides, he had familiarized himself enough with her that the Point Me spell would suffice to track her down. Making a snap decision, Harry walked over to Xander, knelt down and pointed his wand. Legilimans.

Xander's mind, Harry was surprised to see, was unusually organized. Flipping through his memories, it quickly became clear that Xander was neither an inhabitant of Raccoon city, nor a wandering tourist, nor an Umbrella agent.

Harry broke the connection and just stared, stunned at Xander.

"What, what is it?" he asked. "What the hell did you do to me?"

Harry just sat there for a moment, taking it all in, before he focused his gaze on Xander and said, "You slept with Faith?"

Xander was clearly taken aback by the question, because he did not immediately respond. He didn't even manage to issue a witty retort.

Harry sighed and stood up, taking a step back and vanishing the ropes. "Man, and I thought my life was fucked up," Harry said. "Never been possessed by a hyena before."

"Hey!" Xander cried out, realizing that Harry had just rifled through his memories. "What the hell?"

Harry turned and walked to the edge of the cliff, gazing out at the vast sky, the valleys, the mesh of mountain peaks that rose up around them. Behind him, a trio of fast-moving jets flashed by, staying within their range for no more than a minute, each one discharging a pair of multiple, independently targeted missile clusters. The firepower, which was equal to nearly ten megatons of TNT, vapourized Raccoon City in a sea of flames. Harry wasn't paying attention to it, instead lost to his own thoughts. Regardless, he couldn't ignore the wave of heat that stole over him from the blast. It was truly impressive, given that they had elected to not use nuclear weapons.

Xander whistled. "That's some serious firepower."

"They seem to be concentrating on the outskirts of the city," Dawn commented.

"Yeah, it's so that they create a no man's land for the zombies to get out. Look." The jets passed over again, and this time, they released another volley of missiles, these ones dedicated towards flushing out the interior. By the time it was over, Raccoon City was a smoldering ruin of debris. Any zombies left functioning were either too maimed to move properly, or were damaged sufficiently that their bodies were no longer capable of carrying them outside the wasteland that the city had become. Even for an able-bodied adult it would have been grievously difficult to navigate the mess of torn cement and asphalt that the streets had become. A few of the more resilient creatures that lurked in the sewer system survived relatively unscathed, but they too would succumb in time. The site would be subject to a twenty-four hour guard dedicated to the certain eradication of all Umbrella's experiments. Eventually, Umbrella would begin reconstruction of the site, and, in ten years, it would be as good as new. As though the apocalypse that had hit in the summer of nineteen ninety-six had never happened.

Harry's thoughts were elsewhere. There was something building in the air. An energy unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was as though a cruciatus curse was being cast, only it was being diffused over a vast space, so that, instead of causing a single person excruciating pain, it was causing a great many people a mild discomfort. So faint was it, that Harry doubted he would have noticed if it were not for his increased attunement to his own magic. Caught between this curious dark magic and the titanic destruction of a cozy little resort town, Harry couldn't help but be struck by that same feeling of smallness that he attributed to Jill. He was a small fish in a very big pond.

Jill came up next to him and asked, "What do we do now?"

But Harry didn't answer. That tingle of energy, the resonance of something fundamental, like some sort of metaspell, or transmagic, was building, the way a brushfire catches in a dead forest. Soon, it was alive in the air, streaming out, darkening the light of the sun like a thousand dementors. It became so strong for a brief instant that Harry felt as though his soul were going to be drawn clean out of his body, and then, in a flash, like a balloon deflating, it ebbed away, pulling back, retreating into obscurity, squirreling itself away under its own protective wards.

Jill shivered but she did not understand what had happened. Only Harry did. Somehow, the game had changed. A new power had revealed itself. Something distinct. Something that wasn't slayers, or Dark Lords, or evil corporations.

"I have to go look into something," Harry replied distractedly, still trying to get a fix on whatever that thing was. "I'm not sure how dangerous it's going to be or how long it will take."

"Something magical?" Jill inquired.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

Jill remained quiet after that, and Harry saw for a brief moment, the vision of a scared little girl, pulling the blanket around her shoulders to insulate herself from the creeping shadows. But then it was gone, and in its place stood Jill, hard, defiant, solitary. "Go on then," she said. "I can make my way down the mountain." She glanced over at Xander and Dawn. "The three of us will go together."

"I can give you another portkey," Harry offered, but somehow, he knew she would refuse.

"I've been up and down this mountain a hundred times. It won't take more than an hour to scale. Thanks anyway, though."

"You gonna head to Denver?" Harry asked. He conjured a bottle of water and half a dozen peanut butter and jam sandwiches, neatly tucked away in a conjured rucksack. "Here," he said. "That should do you for awhile."

Jill took it graciously and quirked an eyebrow at the display of magic, before saying, "Yeah, I guess so." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "I'm not going to ask why we didn't get this treatment before."

"Magic is a fickle friend," he said simply.

Jill went to go talk to Dawn and Xander, and soon, they were saying good-byes and heading down the slope of the mountain. Harry remained to gaze out at the horizon for awhile longer, his mind flush with uncertainty, with paths never before crossed. He was in the garden of forking paths.

THE END

Epilogue

Whatever Happened to that Buffy Girl?

Station x-09 was a dark, ugly place. Its walls were made of bare concrete, and there were very few windows, save for those located in the second floor offices. Most of the building was underground, and that's where the slayers were housed. Each slayer had her own cell. When the slayers had first been brought to the building, they had made many escape attempts. Most of them had been very successful, at least in so far as the slayers had been able to escape their restraints and their cells, and, more often than not, to make it to the perimeter, which was marked by a fifteen foot high electrified fence. None of the slayers except for Buffy had managed to scale it. They were too young, too inexperienced to force themselves to grip the chains, despite the thousands of volts that were trying to lock their muscles and burn their flesh. Buffy had been the only one to make it over the top. Unfortunately, the scarring on her hands, the sheer exhaustion, the toll the electricity had taken on her body had worn her down too much. She had been struck by five tranquilizer darts ten feet from the fence.

when she had awoken, she had found herself locked in her cell once more.

The Umbrella scientists had assumed that steel bars would have kept them in their cages. They were wrong.

They thought the cement walls were impenetrable. They were wrong on that count as well.

The slayers had made fourteen escape attempts, each one craftier the previous. The latter nine were led by Buffy personally, after she had been caught. By then, some of the slayers weren't even interested in escaping. They were merely seeking revenge against their torturers. The price they exacted was very, very high. Twelve guards, three scientists and sixteen support staff were killed. Another forty-five people were grievously injured, many permanently, and some so severely that Umbrella quietly knocked them off so as to avoid the hike in insurance premiums that would have surely followed.

It was a testament to Umbrella's dangerousness that the company did not lose a single slayer in any of the escape attempts. Even Buffy came to appreciate the irony of the situation when it finally struck her. All their escape attempts, all their struggles, their resistance, it did more for Umbrella than any amount of scientific poking and prodding could have accomplished, and it did it in half the time. Pound for pound, they had probably saved Umbrella money.

Every escape attempt had been recorded. Every show of strength. Every preternatural ability that a slayer had was laid bare in those fourteen attempts. Their keen senses, stretched to the breaking point, their superhuman strength, their animal ferocity, their ability to withstand punishment, their stress levels - it was all observed by strategically placed cameras. Each piece of information was catalogued and analyzed.

By the end of the entire exercise, Umbrella had refitted its entire facility so that it became completely slayer proof. The handcuffs were augmented, the steel bars were replaced by solid steel walls. The concrete had been overlaid with a synthetic resin that was just flexible enough to diffuse a pummel from an enraged slayer. Of course, these enhancements alone would not be enough to render a slayer impotent. Humans were still needed to come into close contact with each and every one of them, which meant that there would always be a substantial amount of risk. Various suggestions had been thrown about in the executive offices. Someone suggested that the slayers be starved into submission, kept on the brink of extinction so that they simply did not have the physical energy levels to function properly. However, that suggestion, like all the others, was quickly vetoed. Slayers needed to be in good form for testing purposes. Deprivation strategies would ruin the results.

Eventually, they touched on the cruciamentum, and that's when everything changed. The cruciamentum added a whole new dimension to the study of slayers. Imagine, a drug that was capable of modulating the abilities of a slayer. It was exactly the kind of key that the scientists needed in order to understand the symbiosis that underscored slayer powers. A symbiosis that Umbrella was committed to replicating. Best of all, it ensured the security of the staff.

The slayers were no longer a threat, because all the powers they could have brought to bear had been accounted for and neutralized.

That is, all except one.

At five minutes after four o'clock in the morning, on August 10, 1996, while Faith was having her kneecap demolished by a bullet, Buffy Summers was having a vision. Fifteen minutes later, at precisely twenty-five past four, Buffy was standing over Jorge's body, his throat having been torn out by Buffy's bare hands. She then limped over to a desk chair and collapsed in a heap, quietly sobbing into her blood-laden palms.

After several minutes in which Buffy gathered her wits about her, slowly rebuilt her composure and tried futilely to wipe the drying blood from her hands, she leaned back and closed her eyes in quiet contemplation of her situation. The vision that had gotten her this far had scarcely little more information to go on. She was certain the guard rotation came by Jorge's office at exactly half past and on the hour, which meant that she only had to wait another minute or two to let them pass before slipping out the office door. She was still under the effects of the cruciamentum, which meant that she had no special powers to speak of. All she had was a prolonged bout of nausea that she was fiercely suppressing in order to get the job done. The PTB had sent her a vision, a slayer dream, which meant that this time, unlike all the others, there was a way out of this mess. She just had to figure out what that way was.

She understood Faith better now. Buffy glanced over to Jorge's corpse and found herself reaching over to the office waste basket to silently hurl her previous night's dinner. It wasn't the sight of the dead body that repulsed her so much as it was the fact that she had been the one to cause that mess.

Okay, maybe she couldn't really understand Faith at all. Buffy was appalled by her own actions, her own failing fortitude in the face of her imprisonment. Jorge had caught her rooting around in his office, and, between her fear of getting caught, the close taste of freedom, the memory of having her uterus removed just last week, she went feral. Her blue eyes had darkened considerably. She had thrown herself at him, tossing them both clumsily over a chair and sending them crashing against the ground. That one brief moment of surprise had given Buffy the advantage she needed to drive her fingers deep into his jugular, crushing it in a matter of seconds, and parting the flesh in a burst of red liquid. Even without her slayer powers, Buffy could be a formidable killing machine. Seven years of front-line battle experience taught her how to win and how to put aside her sense of compassion, love and tenderness, the things that she thought made her human, in order to do what was necessary to succeed.

Now it was all hitting her. These cretins, these scientists had destroyed her. They had taken her apart and put her back together again. Only, she wasn't whole anymore. They had always been careful not to inflict physiologically debilitating surgeries on her. Those kinds of tests were reserved for the other slayers. Buffy knew this. Sometimes, she caught sight of dismembered limbs, and she had shuddered. What did they need to dismember them for? Fortunately, that kind of testing was among the rarest. Mostly, they were simply tortured, their endurances measured. Other tests were more innocuous, involving the taking of samples. they took every kind of sample imaginable, ranging from blood, to urine, to spinal fluid. Buffy suspected that they were putting lesions on some of the girl's brains in order to understand the interface between the mystical link and their neurology. Buffy had no idea whether they found anything. She didn't really care about that. All she cared about was the fact that her girls, the ones she had trained personally, had fought with and against, had suffered with - they were being mutilated, and maimed one by one, violation compounding with violation. It was no wonder that Buffy had to cry at least a little bit. She was the hardest, toughest, bitchiest slayer on Earth, but she loved deeply. It's what gave her her strength.

After collecting herself, she picked up Jorge's key ring and slipped out of his office, careful to gently close the door behind her. She knew from some of the comments of her interrogators that every square inch of the facility was covered by surveillance cameras. She had to assume that they weren't manned around the clock. There was simply no way for her to execute a successful escape attempt unless she was able to move undetected for quite some time. Most of her plan relied on the brute strength of other slayers. She had to hope that they weren't all under the cruciamentum. As useful as her slayer dream had been, and as useful as it was to be free in the pre-dawn hours, they needed serious muscle to escape this mess.

Ironically, the cruciamentum actually increased the success rate of an escape attempt. Umbrella had relaxed their guard presence at the facility, content to assume that the automated security measures were sufficient to contain the slayers. That too, proved to be exceptionally helpful. Instead of having to unlock each and every cell manually, Buffy was able to control them at the main security console. She opened every single one though it was hardly necessary to do so. Half the cells were empty, courtesy of Umbrella's science goons. Half of them were dead or too gravely mutilated to deal with.

However, opening the electromagnetically sealed cell doors was not the primary objective of the mission. No, the PTB had given her something else, and, when she spotted the computer terminal nestled to one side of the main computer system, Buffy understood that it was time to fulfill her mission parameters. It was currently twenty-minutes to five.

She had seen this computer terminal in her dreams. It was more or less nondescript, save for a purple teletubby that was glued to the top of the monitor. In her dream, she had seen a particular screen display. It had been black and white, utilizing the old school command prompt system characteristic of DOS and UNIX. On it, a single command had been typed out. It was a long and complicated twenty-three character alphanumeric pass code. Only three executives knew of its existence, and only one of them actually had the code.

Buffy hit the enter key, and briefly closed her eyes.

Five seconds later, klaxons began sounding throughout the building. The lights were cut, plunging everything into darkness for another five seconds, until the red emergency lights kicked in.

"DESTRUCT SEQUENCE ACTIVATED. COUNTDOWN BEGINS IN FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE. FIFTEEN MINUTES REMAINING."

At precisely five o'clock, as Raccoon city was consumed by flames, a series of underground, strategically placed mines would be detonated, designed to vapourized the key executive rooms of the building, destroying all relevant evidence, as well as shattering all the foundational keystones that kept the building together. By five after five, the entire building would be a smoldering tomb.

The activation of the self-destruct sequence was the slayers' best shot at survival. Even with their slayer powers intact, Buffy doubted that they would have been in a position to escape, if, for no other reason, than the simple fact that the others would have been too broken to function. But now, with their imminent death made crystal clear to them, with the alarms breaking them out of the stupor, communicating to them the simple knowledge that the rules of the game had changed, they had a chance. Hope had returned to them.

It didn't hurt that the scientists and the guards would all be running for their lives.

Buffy limped out of the security room, only to run across two guards that were rushing in her direction. "Oh, Christ," she muttered, before blinking in astonishment as they ran straight past her.

Self-preservation was a powerful motivator.

The facility was based on a simple utilitarian design, which made committing its layout to memory easy. Buffy quickly navigated the halls until she reached the cell block. One of the doors had already been knocked open, and Victoria, one of the younger slayers, was peeking around.

The sight of Buffy, robed in a bloodied hospital gown and limping toward her, her face bathed in the red incandescent emergency lights visibly startled her. She shrank back as if in fear. Buffy however, did not waste time trying to puzzle out the psychology of tortured prison victims, or even to exchange a simple pleasantry. In thirteen and a half minutes, the entire place was going to come down.

Buffy yanked on the first door, intent on throwing it wide open, and only managing to budge it a little. "Argh," she grunted, reclaiming the handle and using all her strength to drag it open. The door hinges were actually based on a hydraulic press system that were controlled by the main security office. Doing it by hand required far more strength than a power-suppressed Buffy could manage. Suddenly, the pressure disappeared, and the door finished opening the rest of the way. Next to her, stood Victoria, who just gave her a smile and shrugged.

"Thanks," Buffy said, peering in and seeing only an empty room. Despite having her powers suppressed her years of combat experience allowed her to catch sight of a fast-moving leg in the periphery of her vision and to respond quickly enough that she didn't have her skull cracked in half. She grunted and cried out stop, even as she hit the ground as she overbalanced to avoid the strike.

"Buffy?" came a feminine voice that Buffy immediately recognized as belonging to Courtney.

"Yeah, who else? Jeez, watch where you put that leg next time." Buffy got to her feet and turned around and marched out of Courtney's cell. Victoria had already roused the other two slayers, who were standing idly about, some with scars peeking out from under their clothes. Buffy wondered what horrors had been inflicted upon them, but quashed the thought immediately. There was no time for that. They had all their limbs in working order, and she could tell from their stances that they were all turbo charged.

Eleven minutes left. Even with enhanced reflexes it would be a tight squeeze making it out of the building before its destruction. The irony was not lost on Buffy that, even though the slayer dream had come to her, she herself was not fit to escape their prison.

"This all of you?" Buffy asked, looking them each in the eye.

They all glanced nervously at the fifth door.

Buffy followed their gaze and, not wanting to waste any more time, she just asked, "Who is it?"

"Sylvia," one of them muttered.

"Go on then," Buffy said. "Get out of here. The building's about to blow, courtesy of the PTB."

At the mention of the ancient and mysterious beings, hope blossomed fully on their faces for the first time. "You're not coming?" Victoria asked, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"I...," Buffy began, but she found that she could not bring herself to articulate her present disability. Even if it weren't her fault, she felt a distinct sense of shame, as though she were no longer worthy. No longer special.

Realization dawned on their faces. They had all been subjected to the cruciamentum at one point or the other during the last two weeks of their incarceration. It just happened to be a stroke of bad luck that Buffy had been the one on the drug at the time of the vision. They seemed to make the same calculation as she had, having all participated in the numerous escape attempts and understanding what was demanded of an escapee. They were underground, and in order to escape, they would have to perform superior acrobatics to rise up through the levels in order to make the deadline.

"I'll be right behind you," Buffy said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her lack of conviction.

"We can't-" Victoria started.

"You have to," Buffy insisted, her eyes shining with tears that would not flow. She was past crying. She did not want to die. Not like this, and, though she had moped about after her resurrection, longing for the warmth of that heavenly embrace in the afterlife, she found now that she wanted to remain in the here and now. "You need each other. And you need to warn the others. Think of how guilty you would feel if you failed to spread the word. If other girls suffered at the hands of these creeps."

They exchanged glances. Finally, Courtney gave Buffy a long hug before stepping back, her own eyes wet with tears. Victoria and the other two followed suit before turning and fleeing down the hallway.

Ten minutes left.

Buffy composed herself and considered her options. She could try and escape, she supposed. It would be utterly pointless with her injured leg, but it would at least allow her to embrace her fighting spirit in her moments of death. Only, there was something about it that seemed undignified. At least it was better than standing uselessly in the hallway just waiting to die.

Like Sylvia.

thinking of the last remaining slayer alive in the complex, Buffy decided on an impulse to go see her. If she were going to die, at least she would not die alone. Of all the fears she had had surrounding possible death scenarios, Buffy had always thought that to die a failure would be the worst way. To die alone, she had always felt would be the second worst.

The door took some effort to open. The first thing that struck her was the stench of urine. The other slayers had lived relatively clean lives in their respective prisons, so the rank putrefaction that permeated Sylvia's cell surprised her, casting into sharp relief her hatred for Umbrella. The bed sheets were stained with blood, that gleamed under the sinister incandescent lights burning overhead. "Sylvia?" Buffy asked quietly in the dead air.

Sylvia was lying on her back on the small cot, her eyes staring up toward the ceiling, glassy and unfocused. It took Buffy a moment to register what she was seeing.

Sylvia's left arm had been torn out of its socket, the wound cauterized to reduce blood loss. Buffy could tell that it had not been sawed off by the neatness of it. Somebody had ripped the joint clean out of the socket. It was also in sharp contrast to Sylvia's legs, both of which had been sawed off at the knees. The only undamaged limb was her right arm, which was missing two fingers.

Above and beyond that, Sylvia was completely naked, her emaciated torso unblemished. A pool of urine stained the bed sheets around where her crotch was located. Buffy was pretty sure there was some sort of infection, not withstanding slayer tolerances for disease.

Her brown hair was splashed around her pillow, unwashed, shiny with grease from days of neglect.

Even if Sylvia were not in a state of pain and hunger induced shock, she would not have been able to speak, because her tongue had been cut out of her head. It was in a jar in a lab somewhere.

Buffy swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up in her throat, but she refused to speak. She could not voice the horror of what she was seeing. She could not understand what purpose drove the scientists to do this. What human could think that this was sensible? That this had value? Not that she could see any value, even from a scientific perspective. What use was it to dismember somebody?

"In the nineteenth century, scientists took prostitutes and performed vivisections on them. The women were tied to tables, lights illuminating their naked bodies, while men used knives to cut open their torsos, carve open their breasts, and gaze at the internal workings of their body."

Buffy whirled around and stared at... herself?

"Who-?" Buffy began before it clicked. "The First," she said with no small amount of contempt.

"Hello, Buffy," the First said soberly, ignoring Buffy's condemning glare and instead walking up next to her to stare impassively at Sylvia's form.

Eight minutes left.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Have you come to gloat?"

"No, though I can understand how you would think that."

"Then what?" Buffy challenged.

The First took a moment to choose its words before speaking. Eventually, it said, again with that impassive voice, "I have failed completely and utterly."

Buffy snorted. "Gee, you think?"

The First ignored the sarcasm. "It never ceases to surprise me that you have no respect for me whatsoever," the First said. "When I initially met you, I thought your sarcasm was a means for you to deal with your fear. But now I know better. It is indicia of your unrelenting disdain for all things evil. I am more than millennia old. I am more than millions of years. I existed since the dawn of this universe's creation. that amounts to billions of years. Tens of billions, in fact. I watched the beings that you call the Powers That Be rise up through infancy. I watched them mature until they became so powerful, they shed themselves of their corporeal bodies, and became, in some respects, like me. I do not say this simply to puff myself up with importance. It is simply that, as I watched life, I saw many constants. One of those was that age was cherished as a gift. Elders were always treated with reverence. I came, eventually, to believe that I, as the oldest of beings, deserved the greatest reverence. That is why I adopted the moniker, The First. It was meant to signal my age superiority. To let others know that I deserve not just respect, but the greatest respect."

"I'm going to die in seven minutes," Buffy said impatiently. "Please tell me you're not going to waste the last few moments I have on this Earth with your moans of self-pity."

The First shot Buffy an annoyed look before snapping her fingers. Suddenly, time ceased to have meaning, and Buffy was torn from Sylvia's rank cell to a white, featureless mindscape. "There," said the First. "Now I can bore you for hours with my moans of self-pity, and you will have nothing to complain about."

"Where the hell am I?" Buffy asked, glancing around and noting the muted quality of her voice. It was like talking through a wall of cotton.

"This is a mindscape I have created so that we may talk for longer. It is a trick used among telepaths to increase communication speed. Because our minds are now linked, we can communicate with one another so quickly that seconds will turn into minutes, and minutes into hours."

"Whoa, hold on a second. Are you telling me you plugged some sort of a metaphysical USB wire into my head?" Buffy asked. "And did I just use a computer analogy?" Buffy had a sudden vision of transforming into a female version of Andrew, whereupon she shuddered uncontrollably.

"I am not altogether familiar with computers, though I do have a sophisticated knowledge of some sciences. I am particularly adept at theoretical mathematics and astrophysics."

"Er, why?" Buffy asked.

"I have sought to understand our universe. While I have an intuitive grasp of some of its more elemental features, some of which you can barely conceive of, I do not have the technical knowledge, nor the means by which to go about gathering such knowledge. It is a relatively recent pastime of mine."

"Okay, so you're a nerd," Buffy said. "That's... unexpected."

"It's unbelievable," the First exclaimed, losing her composure and throwing her hands into the air. "You're impossible, Buffy Summers." The first put her hands on her hip and sauntered right up to Buffy so that their noses were just inches apart. "I have powers so immense, I could crush Hell Gods. I could cut through the fabric of reality with my bare hands. I can delve into the deepest parts of your psyche and pick your thoughts apart with impunity, and I can do it from a thousand light years away. No other being in the universe can claim to do such a thing. Not even the much vaunted Powers that Be. I can command legions of soulless beings should I choose to do so, and I can manipulate the weak-minded and the power hungry with relative ease."

"And it really burns that I kicked your ass," Buffy responded softly, her eyes intense and glittering with the internal fires of her spirit.

"Yes," the First admitted, looking away, disgusted with herself. "Yes, you defeated me. You closed a bloody Hellmouth. That has never been done before. You and your witch-friend and all the potentials."

"They're not potentials anymore," Buffy said.

"No, but they're not you, either."

"What does that mean?" Buffy asked, curious despite herself.

"You're special," the first said. "Not just because you are a slayer, but because you survive. You survive unlike any other slayer who has come before you. You survive when you are not supposed to."

"I've died twice, you know."

"So why is it then that you are still here?" the First challenged. "Have you thought about that?"

"Because of my friends," Buffy returned. "It has nothing to do with me."

"Spare me your self-pity," the first said, fixing Buffy with a penetrating gaze, as though by the force of her will she could make Buffy understand a simple truth. "Why do you have friends that are prepared to go to such lengths for you? They are nothing special. There is no reason to expect them to fight supernatural beings."

"Willow's special."

"Yes, and have you ever wondered why? Do you think she would have become a witch if it hadn't been for you? It was you and your war that spurred her to develop her powers beyond any normal limit. Did you know that your watcher is the only watcher to ever leave the Council in defense of his charge? Let us not forget Alexander Harris."

"You do not need to speak of Xander to me. I am well aware of the sacrifices he has made."

"Do you think that you are the only slayer to have friends in the fight against darkness?" the First pressed, coming closer once more, her own intensity mirroring that of Buffy's. "Some slayers had even gone to such lengths as to recruit soldiers to assist her in her war. They all failed her. Not Giles, nor Willow, nor Xander, nor any of the potentials understood just what a feat it was to bring them all together. To train them. You commanded them to walk into the mouth of Hell, and they went."

"I'm just a slayer," Buffy said helplessly. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"Slayers are pathetic, insignificant beings. They have short, brutal lives marked by pain and suffering. They come to long for death far before their time. You have felt this, just like all your predecessors. Their powers are bestowed upon them for the purposes of destroying half-demons, like vampires, and even then, a particularly smart and experienced half-demon can defeat a slayer. Spike has proven that he is quite capable in the field. Against beings like Wilkins, Glory, and Caleb, you should not have stood a chance. Certainly not against me."

"What are you trying to say?" Buffy repeated. "Again, not with the understanding here."

The First sighed, as in so far as an ageless, incorporeal being could do such a thing, before continuing. "The war you have been charged to fight is just one war amongst many wars, each one varying in scope. For example, on your very planet, there is currently a war taking place over the future of the planet. It is a magical war between wizards. Thousands of them are about to descend into an anarchical struggle that will determine the fate of non-magical beings. You have no place in that war. A slayer has no place. Your place is fighting the vampire and guarding the Hellmouth."

Buffy nodded. "Yeah, got the memo.'

The First just went on, "The beings you call the Powers That Be are engaged in their own personal war. They too are desperately fighting an intruding enemy. However, their war is occurring on a scale you could not conceive of. To you, it would not even look like a war. It would probably look as though they were meditating. But I assure you, if they are not careful, they could wipe this solar system from existence with their minds. They are power beyond reckoning."

"Where do you fit in all of this?" Buffy asked.

The First smiled a humourless smile. "You are finally asking an intelligent question. I am a free agent. As I said, I am not a product of growth. I am unique in that way. I gained sentience at the start of the universe. It is the reason I have no physical being. My essence pervades the fabric of space-time. It is the reason I can move instantaneously across vast distances."

Buffy remained silent. Only after several moments did she speak. "You did this to us. You told Umbrella about us. I thought it must have been Riley, but it was you. That's the only way they could have had so much information on us."

The First nodded. "I did. I even told them about your watcher. They were not interested until I mentioned the cruciamentum. I knew how to push their buttons."

"Manipulating the power hungry is easy," Buffy echoed. "That's what you said."

"Yes, and it is," replied the First.

"I hate you."

"I know."

"I'd like to go now," Buffy said. "My time here has come to an end. I don't think there's really anything left to say to one another."

""There is just one more," said the First. She looked directly into Buffy's eyes, and her gaze noticeably softened. It was the only time Buffy had ever seen the First show a sincere emotion. "I am sorry. It was never anything personal with you. You defeated me, and while the defeat stung, I only ever respected you."

"Then why?" Buffy asked, surprised that she believed the First, and surprised that her mind was not clouded by her emotions. "Are you planning to open another Hellmouth? Destroy the world?"

"It was never my intention to destroy the world. It was only my intention to find a hero."

Buffy snorted. "Yeah, right, and I'm the queen of tea and crumpets."

"It is true. Caleb was to be my right hand in the coming battle for the defense of Earth."

"Well, you're not exactly looking for our best and brightest," Buffy said. "what in the world would make you think that the preacher freak would be a good leader?"

"He was docile, and his needs were easily met. It was easy to command him. That was all. You would be surprised at how difficult it is to find somebody like that. They always develop delusions of grandeur, or, even worse, their sense of morality reasserts itself at the most inopportune time. I needed a true psychopath."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "that's your criterion for a hero? He has to be a psycho? No wonder you keep losing."

The First smiled wanly. "I suppose it would be rather silly of me to argue with the victor."

"What exactly do you need a hero for anyway? What are you defending Earth from? these invaders?"

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" the First responded. "Don't you ever get tired of sacrificing yourself time and again?"

"It's better than sacrificing others," Buffy replied. "I cannot abide that. To me, that is just murder."

"That is what distinguishes you from me. I have no compunction about sacrificing others to succeed."

"Perhaps that is why evil people always lose. You're not prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice."

The First blinked, as if surprised. "I have never considered that."

"Well, perhaps you should. You'll never win if you demand complete obedience. It's stifling. Your soldiers will never truly respect you. Not if they've got two brain cells to rub together. You've got to begin by sacrificing your control. Your leaders need to be free to chart their own paths in a war. Good people are held together by things other than fear. They fight because they recognize the higher purpose behind it. I trust Xander and Willow and Giles, because I know that they believe in the same things that I do. They've proven that. I don't need to have any of them on a leash."

"And yet Willow tried to kill you all."

"That's the danger, isn't it? You give up your control, and your servants become your allies. Their interests can change. They can turn on you. Independent thought is a double-edged blade. The true leader knows this and learns to work with it, not against it."

"There is no one I can trust with that kind of power."

"Then your plans are doomed to fail."

"That is not an option. The fate of all sentient beings in this galaxy depends on me."

"Why?' Buffy countered, taking a step toward the First. "Why not the PTB? You said they're powerful. They can handle these invaders. Why do you need to do anything?"

The First shook her head. "The Powers are a race of beings. they have flaws just like humans, despite their advancements. They are all too happy playing the shepherd when they're the biggest kids on the block. But with the invaders, the game has changed. The Powers will concede the whole galaxy if it means protecting their own. They will not die for you. They will not die for any of us. They would sooner flee, and because they are not rooted to this place, they can do exactly that."

"Who are these invaders?"

The First tilted her head, looking off into the distance, her eyes clouding over as though she were recalling an old memory. She seemed to relive some moment in the past, because the timbre of her voice softened. "They are ascended beings from far away. Like the PTB, they have achieved what some call instrumentality. They can manipulate the ambient energy of the universe directly, and they can do so through many layers of reality at once. They were mortal once, but no more. Some believe they have advanced to the point where there is simply nothing left to learn. They have accumulated the sum total of all knowledge. They call themselves the Ori. Mortal beings cannot stand against a direct attack from them anymore than they can withstand an attack from the Powers That Be. Only the Powers, or other such ascended beings have the power to stop them."

"And you?" Buffy pressed, disturbed to hear of this cosmic war.

"I cannot," the First said, her voice growing more distant, her eyes seeming to turn inward. The First hesitated, and then said, "I do not have the strength to stop them. I can stop one, or two maybe. But I am just one being. And I am linked to the fabric of space-time that permeates this region of space. they can come and go as they please. I am immortal. I am timeless, but I fear they will know how to neutralize me. They will destroy me as they have destroyed all else who stand in their way. I will succumb, and my existence will be over."

"You fear death," Buffy whispered, seeing the First as she truly was. "That is why you are getting involved. You don't want to die just like the rest of us. That is why you're going to such lengths to stomp all over everyone and anyone who gets in your way. You're trying to do something to stop these Ori."

The First returned to herself and gazed at Buffy intently. "Of course. Everything I have done has been for the single purpose of insulating myself, and, by extension, this galaxy from an invasion by the Ori. You cannot fight these beings with axes and arrows. They do not have bodies. They can wipe this solar system from neighbouring star systems. You need to ascend. You need to become like the Powers if you expect to fight the Ori and defend your home. Umbrella could have done that. Umbrella is the synthesis of human ambition. After failing to install my own minions on Earth to direct them personally, I tried steering Umbrella to do what I could not. to learn the secrets of magic, of energy, of time and space. To drag themselves towards a place where they could fight the Ori."

"But?"

"But they do not listen to me. They are going to start a war with the magical world, and I fear that it will destroy them all. Not even I can forecast what will come of that battle, but it does not look good. You have all wasted too much precious time already. There is very little hope for you now."

"You could have said all this in the beginning," Buffy countered. "why did you not try speaking of it? We would have listened."

The First gave another humourless smile. "Do you really believe that? You are a pawn of the Powers. The Powers loathe me. I am a constant irritant to them. I harm their precious humans. I do not play by their rules. I look down upon them with contempt. Why should I expect their pawn to be any different? The powers at your disposal, however meager they may be, are given to you by those very beings that despise me. Besides, what could you do? To fight the Ori, you will need to do precisely what you have always been counseled against doing. You will need to gather power. You will need to become a force as powerful as the very beings that hold your strings. The PTb would not permit it."

"The PTB don't own me," Buffy said harshly.

The First laughed. "Don't they? Don't you long for what they can give you? Don't you long for the warmth of their embrace? That perpetual joy you experienced after Glory's death? Are you not now seeking to return there?" The first leaned in close, a smirk twisting her features. "Tell me, do you really believe you're going to go back to that place? That the Powers will send you there?"

Buffy shivered for the First time. In truth, she had always expected that, when she died again, she would simply return to the warm place that Willow had torn her from. It had only made sense. In fact, that knowledge had given her the peace of mind to continue living her life, content with the knowledge that she had already paid her dues, that her spot in heaven was reserved.

The First pressed onward, "Willow could not have torn your soul from their grip without their permission, Buffy."

Buffy felt as though she had been punched in the gut. "That's not true," she said.

"Why do you think I was allowed to run rampant?" the First said, almost sneering now. "Did you not think about it at all? The Powers broke the covenant. They let you return. They violated the rules by doing that. Do you think that the wiles of a mere witch, no matter how powerful, could alter the balance to permit me to move freely amongst you?" the First shook her head. "No, it was the Powers. It was their act, their complicity in the affair that permitted me to be here. They know they are losing grip on their holdings. They know the Ori are coming. They have been in contact with another ascended race, known as the Ancients. They have been given advance warning. And do you know what? They have done nothing."

"they're doing what they can," Buffy said, though her voice was more hesitant now.

"Are they?" the First mocked. "You're only here because they sent you a vision. Did you not think to ask why they have chosen to send you a vision now, of all times? Now, when you have no chance of escape? they have consigned you to death. You are expendable. They're getting rid of you. They intend to put their stock in Faith to continue the fighting. She has made contact with a wizard. They have high hopes for that relationship. they think that, maybe, if the slayers unite with wizards, some sort of magical catharsis will occur. They needed this facility destroyed so that Faith is diverted. They don't care about you. I can hear the wizard's thoughts even now. He is turning his eye in this direction. The boy wizard, Harry Potter, he will come shortly. He will find the slayers. Not I nor the PTB can predict what will happen when two potent magical cultures collide. It is their last gamble for this planet. Otherwise, they will leave you to the fate of the Ori. They care greatly about this planet. They love watching your kind grow and flourish." The First seemed to barely whisper the next words. "But they don't care about you, Buffy. They don't care about you. Did it ever occur to you that they don't even like you?"

"I don't - I can't...," Buffy started, her gaze shifting away from the First's. Finally, she said, "How can I believe anything you're saying? What does it even matter? I'll be dead in mere minutes now."

"It matters," said the First loftily. "It matters, because you could choose to join me."

"Join you?" Buffy asked wryly. "Gee, I didn't know you had any particular uses for demolished corpses."

The First frowned. "Again with the sarcasm. It's quite unattractive."

Buffy just put her hands on her hips and waited expectantly.

The First relented, not having expected an apology anyway. "You could reject your current demonic symbiote and merge with me."

Buffy paused, as if expecting the First to say something more, before responding. "that's a joke, right? You're joking."

"No, Buffy, I'm not."

"Joining you would be the antithesis of everything I stand for."

"Why?"

Buffy didn't have an answer to that. Finally, she settled on, "You're evil.'

"But you're not. I wouldn't be controlling your body like some sort of parasite."

"What then? What do you get out of this?"

"Consider me an advisor. I'll provide you some helpful comments."

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "That's it? What's stopping me from telling you to take a hike?"

The First looked shiftily about, before tucking nervously on her shirt collar. "Nothing?"

Buffy just continued to glare and wait for a response.

The First let out a long, suffering sigh. "Fine, you win. You'll have to merge with me regularly in order to maintain your powers."

"Oh, no," Buffy replied instantly. "No way. There's absolutely no way, shape or form I'm signing up to be your bitch. I saw how well that worked out for Caleb. That guy had issues."

"You'll still retain your mind."

"I want a little more reassurance than that." Buffy shook her head. "You have to go in all the way. You're going to have to give up some of that control you've grown so used to. If you're on the level with me, and these Ori folks are really the big bad, then I'll take them out. I'll do what you want, but it won't be because you tell me to. It'll be because I've determined that they're evil incarnate. That's the deal."

"I can't trust you to not be stupid about this. There are things you're going to have to do if you expect to survive a confrontation with the Ori unscathed.."

"You're just going to have to convince me," Buffy replied, folding her arms across her chest.

"You're going to need far more power than what I can bestow upon you through our symbiotic link. And you will need legions. You must gather together beings of such great power, beings who have achieved immortality, who draw on wellsprings of energy so powerful their very names invoke fear in lesser beings."

"Willow's really powerful," Buffy said. "We need to find her."

The First shook her head. "No, she is not powerful. She draws energy from the world and manipulates it. She is very good at what she does, but the power does not flow through her. That is the nature of the ascended. That is what you must gather to fight it."

"So what then?"

"There are few beings here that possess such power. The most notable is Lord Voldemort."

Buffy raised an eyebrow at the name.

The First continued, "But he will not be easily subjugated to your will. He will resist you, and his will is formidable. Unchecked, he would drag humanity to unknown places."

"Why didn't you approach him?" Buffy asked skeptically.

Now it was the First's turn to raise an eyebrow. "What makes you think I didn't?" The First shook her head. "It does not matter. Lord Voldemort would not listen to me. He would only seek to use me. I could not work with him. Moreover, he has made powerful enemies. He faces an uphill battle to achieve the ascendancy he so dearly craves, and they will work tirelessly against him. Among these is the boy wizard Harry Potter, of whom I spoke earlier. The Powers have their eye on Potter. No doubt they will back him if it strikes their fancy."

"Okay, that makes sense. But what makes you think he'll work with me? Will my power be so great?"

"Even combined with my formidable strengths, it may not be so. I should clarify that Lord Voldemort has achieved a form of immortality. One which is flawed, but which will function nevertheless. However, this immortality he has achieved is not the same as ascendancy. It might be best described as descendancy, if there were such a thing. Instead of purifying his soul and raising it above and beyond corporeal matter, he has instead divided his soul and tied it to several matter-based anchors. It is almost the inverse of what he in fact needs to do in order to achieve an ascended state."

"Still not helping with the plan here. How do I get this guy to work with me?"

"You will need power even greater than anything I could supply," the First said, again staring off into the distance. "But alas, we are exhausting the energies of this universe. You will have to go further afield."

"Further afield? Why don't I like the sound of that," Buffy muttered.

"You will have to cross the reality barrier."

"The reality barrier?" Buffy repeated doubtfully.

"All universes are governed by a series of rules. These rules are what we call the transreality matrix. There, you will find tools of great and terrible power. There is one item in particular that you will want. It is the physical nexus of the deep magic that permeates the fabric of that world. It was created by a dark lord to subjugate all sentient beings to its will." The First leaned forward, shifting her focus once more to Buffy. "It is a single object, small, innocuous and capable of giving you untold power. Power equal to that of my own. With it, you would have access to powers so great, no single being in existence could ever oppose you. It is the one ring. They call it the one ring of power, and it is loved and reviled by all who gaze upon it."

"You want me to get a piece of jewellery?" Buffy asked.

The first's eyes gleamed with fervor. "You do not understand. This is no ordinary ring. The ring has a mind of its own. It has joined with the Dark Lord Sauron. To retrieve it, you will not only have to possess the ring, but you will have to sunder it from the Dark Lord's psychic grip. You will have to prove to the ring your worthy. Do not mistake it for a piece of mere gold. It is forged with the lifeblood of the deep magic of that world. It is akin to what you know as the key. It is the embodiment of a great power that has been given a very specific form. If the monks had rendered the key of Daigon into a form that we could have used, then I would have told you to secure it instead. But they didn't, and they knew that it would be near impossible to use the key in its current form."

"And what exactly does this ring do for me?"

"The strength of the ring lies in its ability to magnify your psychic powers to a degree barely conceivable. To those who are the Dark Lord's enemies, the ring is a parasite, eating their minds away, rotting their brains until they are mere shells of what they once were. But to the Dark Lord Sauron, it gives itself over fully and freely for use. With it, you will control the Witch king, and the Nazgul, immortal beings that strike fear into the hearts of all who gaze upon them. With the ring, you will have the psychic strength to break Lord Voldemort to your will. And not just Lord Voldemort, but all the great powers that can assist you. Old ones. Illyria. the wolf, the Ram and the Hart. Hell Gods. They will feel your power. They will seek you out to be their shepherd. And under the banner of your will, you will marshall them for the defense of the world. You will have clout on the magnitude of the PTB, and with it, you will strike terror into the hearts of your enemies." She fell silent and gazed expectantly at Buffy. "Well?"

Buffy took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Ask me for anything but time, says Napoleon," she muttered, casting her gaze about for something to settle it on. Truthfully, Buffy didn't know what to think. She had imminent death on the one hand, and, if she were being honest, there was a certain appeal to letting herself slip gently into that good night. But on the other hand, she thought of her world, her sister and her friends. If the First were telling the truth about these Ori, then they were all in trouble. Maybe not tomorrow or in ten years, but in twenty or fifty, who knew. She found it difficult to walk away from a battle. Maybe that was her slayer half talking, she didn't know. But it was true nevertheless, and this was going to be a battle to end all battles. Buffy had thought that shutting down the Hellmouth was the be all and end all of her career, and, now, just as it was so often the case, she was coming to see that it was a mere prelude to the bigger conflict.

"If I do this," Buffy said, "I can back out at any time. We can sever the symbiosis, and I'll go my way, you go yours."

the First nodded.

"And there's not going to be any of this namby pamby me having to come to you to recharge. I'm not a frigging Duracell battery."

"Agreed," said the First, "but at the same time, you will swear to me that you will fight the Ori. You will bring together the forces necessary to defeat them and to protect me."

"Only if I find that these Ori are the evil threat that you make them out to be. if I find out you've been lying-"

"I understand. All bets are off."

"Exactly. And as for this protecting you business. Yes, I will do my best, but only to the point where it is not inconsistent with the protection of Earth, and of my sister and friends."

The First considered this. "I know I cannot change your mind in this matter. I will concede the point."

"All right," Buffy said. "One final thing. What's going to happen to you after this merger?'

"If I give myself to the merger completely and utterly, and if I do so permanently, then I will no longer have form, the way you see me now. I will lie dormant in my natural state."

"Which is?" Buffy prompted.

"I will dissolve into the fabric of the universe, only passively aware of my surroundings. The only real data I will perceive will be your thoughts, actions, emotions, which will bleed into my subconscious. It will operate precisely the way the slayer symbiosis operates."

"All right then. Let's do it."

The First extended her hand, and Buffy reached out to grip it. To her surprise, the form was solid. Reading her expression, the First said, "We are in a mindscape. Perception is altered here."

"Oh, right," Buffy said.

Then, before she could add anything else, she began to feel a tingling sensation steal over her, spreading from her hand through to the rest of her body. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was a study of contrasts. Hot and cold. Push and pull. Tingling and numbness. It swept over her, slow at first and then gaining momentum, as the slayer symbiote was purged from her body and the new symbiote took its place. Buffy was jolted out of her mindscape and sent reeling backwards, away from Sylvia, the living corpse. Buffy stumbled and fell onto her butt, staring unseeingly at the far wall as her mind processed the new details. The shock of going from the sensory blankness of the mindscape to her new awareness was startling.

It was a whole new world. "Whoa," she said, unable to articulate the new sensations she was experiencing. Her slayer powers put her head and shoulders beyond the abilities of mere humans. With slayer powers, all her senses had been finely tuned, capable of absorbing the most minute details, cataloguing, filing, conceptualizing, strategizing. Slayer powers also gave their hosts a sixth sense. They could maneuver in pitch darkness, sense vampires, and see through false constructs.

Now, all of those ancillary abilities, as well as the main ones, like strength, speed and endurance, were magnified a thousand fold. Buffy could bench press three thousand metric tons. She could close her eyes and conceptualize the entire layout of the room, from any angle. she could sense light sources, heat emissions, sound vibrations that no technology in Earth's hands could detect. The most incredible thing of all was the fact that her awareness had expanded. She could sense her sister, standing on top of a mountain, the same one on which she had been abducted. She could sense how Dawn was different from Xander, by the feel of them. She also sensed the wizard, Harry Potter, and though she wasn't able to articulate precisely what made him magical, she knew that he was different from both Xander and Dawn and the fourth person - a female. Buffy's psychic awareness was so acute that she could tell Harry was gazing intently in her direction, and she surmised that he had felt the formation of the symbiotic bond between herself and the First.

In those cold, isolated moments in the Umbrella underground facility, Buffy came to understand the magnitude of a being like the First. Buffy could identify anyone, anywhere, pierce all manner of magical veils and concealments, no matter where a person was hidden on Earth. All of Umbrella's plans unfolded before her eyes. She saw the inevitable conclusion of the war games that were being played out, the possibilities, each one spilling into one another, some waxing, some waning, as time passed, as decisions were made.

Buffy picked herself off the floor and glanced curiously at her surroundings. There was only a minute left before the facility was destroyed. Reaching out in search of her slayers, she discovered that they had, in fact, escaped the confines of their prison. That was good, she decided. She felt Harry disappear from the mountain top. At first, she was startled, in part because his sudden disappearance had physically drawn her attention, the way a sharp flash of light to one sight might do so.

Buffy groped around with her mind's eye and, after a bit of fumbling and searching, she located Harry, who was now much closer. Close enough to bear witness to the destruction of the compound.

Hmm, she thought. I wonder if I can do that teleporting thing.

At that moment the countdown completed its sequence. The electronic detonators clicked, causing sparks to ignite the eight hundred pounds of c4 laced dynamite spread across the facility. Concrete walls shattered, aluminum struts burned, steel beams melted as heat waves in the order of six thousand degrees reduced them to molten slag. Much of the structure was left intact. However, without the keystones supporting the weight, the several floors came crashing down, one level on top of the other, concrete and steel bending, cracking, breaking apart into jagged chunks that twisted and crashed downward as gravity continued its merciless assault. Buffy Summers was buried under thousands of tons of debris.

If she had been a slayer, she would have been killed instantly, regardless of her powers. But, as a superslayer, she was only mildly annoyed. A four hundred ton chunk of cement crashed down directly on her head. While it gave her a bit of a bruise, it was nothing to concern herself with. Upon impact, the reactionary force drove a crack through the concrete slab, causing its balance to shift so that it tumbled to one side. Buffy could, if she wanted to, smash her way out of the debris field. It would probably take her several minutes to do so, and she would probably be bruised and battered. The thing was, Buffy didn't need to smash her way out. Among the myriad of powers that she now had access to, one of them was the ability to hop dimensions. She could just as easily shift dimensions as she could grind a vampire's skull to pulp.

But Buffy wasn't going to hop dimensions either. Briefly, she considered staying in her own world, her own reality, and fighting the good fight. It would take little effort to save Willow, to reunite with her friends, continue leading the slayers and have a very serious chat with her former Watcher. However, the truth of the situation was slowly sinking in. She wasn't part of their world anymore. She was operating on a whole different playing field, one with different rules and different players. Every minute she wasted trying to put out the little fires was a minute in which she was letting the bigger fire get that much more out of hand. For the first time, Buffy was beginning to glimpse the vast responsibility that the Powers had taken on. They would have driven themselves mad if they had tried to save every kitten caught up every tree. the world wasn't meant to be peachy. From her new vantage point, it became painfully clear that human suffering, supernatural injustices, moral wrongs - the task of ridding them from the world was a fruitless one.

Still, Buffy decided that she would spare at least a moment, once in a while, to mourn the lost souls. She glanced over at what remained of Sylvia's form. Only a single bloodied stump was visible. The rest of her had been completely buried, her torso and head crushed into tiny pieces. Continuing to gaze down at the nominal remains of a sister slayer, Buffy let the rich energies of the First consume her body in a torrent, slowly but inexorably re-writing her quantum signature in order to situate her in the lands of middle earth.

A/N: OK, so we've come to the end of this story.

I hope everyone's enjoyed it. I received a number of thoughtful reviews. In particular, if I understand correctly, the general view is that the first few chapters had some issues with character portrayals and tone. As of chapter 6, I made a conscious effort to take care with how I went about phrasing Harry's (and others') reactions. Hopefully that came through.

Some people also expressed concerns regarding the use of weak plot devices. I'll try to curb those for the future, but if it helps me to paper over a writer's block, then I think it would be better to just get through a scene or a chapter and move on.

Like so many other fanfic writers, I've worked hard to have the Raccoon City story arc completed prior to the release of DH. There's a very good reason for this. I'm not sure how I'm going to respond to the final HP instalment. It may very well sap my will to write any more HP fanfictions.

I take pride in the fact that I've completed the fanfics that I've started, and that I've done so in reasonably good time. There's a lot of unfinished work out there, and I know from my own experience that it's really disappointing to see a story peter out.

I suppose my drive to continue writing will depend on whether you all wish to read on. Just as my inclination to write fanfiction may fade, so too might your inclination to read it. Please let me know whether you're interested in seeing a sequel. Also, as you've no doubt realized, this novel features a number of story arcs, each of which is in an inchoate stage. Please also let me know which arcs interest you the most. That will help in guiding me toward a particular direction. Any other comments, criticisms, words of praise, etc. are welcome.

I guess that about covers it.

Cheers,

EB


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